But most of all . . . I’m turned on.
I drag a hand down my face, cursing him silently. Cursing myself harder.
“Fantastic.” I push away from the wall. “Welcome to hell, Victoria. Population: you and your terrible taste in men.”
I stalk back up the stairs toward my room, each step a fight between my brain and my body.
He wants me contained.
He wants me quiet.
I slip into my room, shut the door, and lean against it, chest heaving.
That’s when I see it…
From across the space it sits on the dresser, taunting me…
A tiny pebble.
I stalk over, grab it and throw his damn rock across the room.
He thinks this cage will break me.
He thinks time and silence and locked doors will wear me down.
Maybe it would’ve years ago.
But not now. Not after everything.
Not after him.
42
Victoria
As my barefeet hit the marble, I spot one of Lorenzo’s men standing at the end of the corridor. For the past week, ever since our showdown in the foyer, I’ve had a constant shadow.
He’s not blocking anything, and surprisingly, he’s not standing in a way that signifies that he’ll be a threat. He’s just . . . there. Hands loose at his sides, his weight balanced on the balls of his feet.
He’s trying to blend.
He doesn’t.
I have no desire to speak to him.
Maybe he won’t look at me. As if he hears my thoughts, his eyes flick to mine, then away.
Good, we have one professional, not an asshole, in this place. He reminds me of the guards at Buckingham Palace.
I stop, eyes narrowing.
“Do you ever blink?” I adjust my grip on the book. “Or is that part of the training?”
His shoulders tense. Just a fraction.
“Mrs. Amante.” His voice is steady, respectful. “You should head back to your room.”
I tilt my head. “That sounded rehearsed.”
