“You have no idea what kind of game you’re playing, little girl.”
There’s those words again. The ones that pissed me off before.
“I’m not a little girl,” I snap. “I’m eighteenyears old and you didn’t seem to think I was so little when you were watching me through your window like a creep.”
His eyes flash and he grabs my chin, forcing me to look at him. His face is so close I can taste his breath.
“There are things you don’t understand, little Datura,” he says, voice soft but lethal. “One day, when you figure them out, you might not be so bold.”
Before I can ask what the hell that means, he pushes me back into the hallway and slams the door in my face. The sound echoes down the hallway like a gunshot. I stand there shaking. I don’t know if it’s from anger or lust. Datura. He called me poison. I’m not sure what stings more…the rejection, or the way he looked at me like he wanted me but that I was far too dangerous.
What did I expect? That he’d pull me in and show me what I’ve only read about in books?
‘Idiot.’
I walk back to my room, my steps heavy, and sigh as I flop onto my bed. The heat between my thighs is gone, but something else still lingers. He wants me…even if he’s too afraid to say it out loud.
Chapter Ten
Liana
Anger burns hotter than this stupid fricking Arizona sun. For four days, I've made these four walls my kingdom, my prison and my sanctuary…my silent protest.
I've read three books cover to cover, painted my nails twice, and memorized every crack in the ceiling. Anything to keep from thinking about Frankie's face when he caught me watching him, or the way his voice changed when he called me Datura. Anything to keep from thinking about my family and how I still haven’t heard a word or even been able to contact them.
Pita knocks three times a day, like clockwork. Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner. Always with that same worried smile and the same gentle coaxing.
"Mija, you need fresh air. Come eat with me in the garden."
"The pool is so lovely today. No one's around. How about a quick swim?"
"I made your favorite pasta. At least come to the kitchen?"
I refuse every single time. Sometimes with silence and sometimes with venom I know she probably doesn’t deserve.
"If I'm a prisoner here, I may as well act like one," I told her yesterday when she tried to tempt me with homemade gelato. "Isn't that what good captives do? Stay in their cells?"
Earlier today she tried a different angle.
"Frankie's been asking about you."
‘Liar.’
That got a bitter laugh out of me.
"Oh? Has my keeper summoned me for marriage yet? Or is he still too busy with his…work?"
She flinched at that, something knowing in her eyes. Does she know what happened between us? What secrets does she keep? Maybe everyone in this house is pretending not to know things.
On the fourth evening, I'm just stepping out of the shower when my bedroom door crashes open causing me to shriek out loud. There’s no knock, no warning, just the violent swing of wood against the wall and then…Frankie. He stands in the doorway with a furious energy radiating off of him. I clutch my towel tighter as water drips down my legs onto the cold tile.
"Jesus Christ," I gasp, heart hammering. "Ever heard of knocking?"
His eyes snap to mine, then drop…a slow, deliberate sweep down my body that leaves heat in its wake. The towel suddenly feels paper-thin like he can see every curve of my body through it. I watch his throat work as he swallows, the white flower tattoo flexing on his neck enticingly. Something reckless and wild surges through me.
‘Why not? What do I have to lose at this point? Maybe my future husband will come meet me sooner when he finds out about the chaos I’m causing.’
I loosen my grip on the towel, letting it slip just a fraction and watch with satisfaction as his eyes darken, his pupils blown wide. Another inch and…
