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“That was unfortunate. They weren’t supposed to die. The hitman, not expecting them to come home early, panicked. He paid for his mistake.”
I shiver. I don’t want to talk to Rafe anymore.
But he grabs my arm when I try to leave. “You offered yourself to Vladimir,” he says.
“I didn’t mean it,” I reply, even though it’s none of his business.
“Nevertheless, don’t do it again.”
I don’t plan on it, but I balk at his imperial tone.
Rafe draws me near enough that I can feel his breath. “You’re mine, Priscilla. Every inch of you. And you don’t give away what belongs to me.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
And you don’t giveaway what belongs to me, Rafe had said.
I want to tell him that I’m not his. I’m not property like one of the paintings he owns. But what purpose would my objections serve?
Taking me by the arm, he leads me down the hall to a different part of the house I haven’t explored as much because there are a number of locked doors, many of them using facial recognition as a locking mechanism.
“Where are we going?” I ask, worried that I’m about to pay for trying to enlist Vladimir’s help.
“To a different gallery.”
That doesn’t sound too bad, but I still can’t tell whether or not he’s upset that I was trying to escape.
“Can I try my brother again?” I ask.
He stops to look at me. “Should I let you after what you tried with Vladimir?”
“You want your Morelli, don’t you? That’s worth more to you than me.”
“You can call your brother later.”
“Why not now?”
