"You're a monster," I whispered.
"Perhaps." He rose from his chair, extending a hand. "Shall we begin the tour?"
I didn't take his hand. I stood on my own, keeping the table between us, and gestured for him to lead the way.
If he was disappointed by my refusal, he didn't show it.
***
The estate was beautiful. I hated it.
Vasily led me through manicured gardens and sun-dappled orchards, past fountains and statues and terraces overlooking the endless blue sea. Every sight was postcard-perfect, every scent intoxicating—jasmine, citrus, the salt-clean tang of the ocean. Under different circumstances, I might have called it paradise.
Instead, I cataloged guards.
Two at the main gate. Three patrolling the western perimeter. Another stationed at the dock where a sleek speedboat bobbed in the gentle waves. They all straightened when Vasily passed, their eyes tracking me with a mixture of curiosity and wariness. The new prisoner. The boss's obsession.
"The gardens were designed by a landscape architect from Florence," Vasily was saying, his hand ghosting against the small of my back as he guided me around a corner. The touch was light, barely there, but it sent electricity crackling up my spine. I stepped away, putting distance between us.
He noticed. Of course he noticed.
"The roses are particularly impressive in spring," he continued, as if nothing had happened. "My mother loved roses. She used to tend them herself, before—"
He stopped abruptly, his jaw tightening.
"Before what?"
"Before she died." The words were flat, closed off. A door slamming shut.
I should have left it alone. Should have remembered that this man was my enemy, my captor, someone whose pain was not my concern. But I'd seen something flicker in his expression—something raw and wounded beneath the controlled surface.
I filed it away and kept walking.
The path wound down toward the cliffs, and my sandal caught on a loose stone. I stumbled, arms pinwheeling, and then his hands were on me—one gripping my elbow, the other splayed across my stomach, steadying me against the solid wall of his chest.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
I could feel the heat of him through my dress, the controlled strength in his grip. His breath stirred my hair. His cologne wrapped around me—expensive, masculine, the same scent I'd noticed in the coffee shop before everything went wrong.
My heart was racing. Not just from the near-fall.
"Careful." His voice was low, close to my ear. "The terrain can be treacherous."
"Let go of me."
He didn't. Not immediately. His thumb traced a small circle against my stomach, almost unconscious, and I felt the touch in places I didn't want to think about.
Then he released me, stepping back with an expression I couldn't read.
"We should continue," he said. "There's more to see."
I followed him on shaking legs, furious at my body's betrayal. He was my kidnapper. A criminal. A man who'd torn me from my life and imprisoned me in his island fortress. I should feel nothing but hatred and fear when he touched me.
Instead, I felt heat. Awareness. A dark, shameful curiosity about what those hands might do if I stopped fighting.
I shoved the thoughts down and focused on memorizing the guard rotations.
The tour continued for another hour. He showed me the greenhouse, the tennis courts, the infinity pool that seemed to spill directly into the sea. A library that rivaled some I'd seen in movies—two stories of leather-bound books, rolling ladders, a fireplace large enough to stand in. An art collection that probably costs more than I'd earn in ten lifetimes.
