The American consulate is fifteen minutes north. Police stations scattered throughout the centro storico. The airport, an hour away. Embassies that would have to help a kidnapped citizen. All of it reachable, if I wanted to reach it.
But, the darker side of me focuses on something else entirely. His profile in the morning light. The way his hands rest on histhighs, relaxed. The memory of those hands between my legs. The sound of bone cracking because a man looked at me wrong.
You could run.
I could. Right now. Tell the driver I need air. Step onto the street. Scream for help. A dozen scenarios playing out in my head, each one ending with freedom.
You’re not going to.
No.
Because I want to test his obsession. Want to feel it focused on me again. Want to push and see how far he’ll go before he snaps.
We pass the cathedral.
Mycathedral. The one I was restoring before he drugged me in a café and stole my life. Scaffolding still covers the east wall. Someone else is up there now, doing my job, documenting damage I’ll never fix.
The sight should hurt.
It does hurt. But distantly. Like looking at a photograph of someone else’s life.
You’re choosing this.
The mirror this morning proves it. I chose to see what else was there over arming myself. Now I’m choosing his company over escape.
The realization is shocking, and I don’t know what to do with it.
We stop right outside a boutique.
A single saleswoman with glossy hair and a practiced smile greets us at the door and then locks it behind us. Racks of designer clothes in every shade cover the walls. The saleswoman offers me Champagne, which I decline because I need my wits about me for whatever game we’re playing.
Elio settles into a velvet chair near the fitting room. Legs spread. Arms resting at the sides. The perfect picture of a man waiting to see what his money can buy.
I try three dresses.
A black sheath that’s elegant but forgettable. A gold thing with too much sparkle. And then?—
Red.
Deep crimson silk. The neckline plunges to my navel, two wide strips of fabric barely covering my breasts. No back at all. The skirt is full-length with a slit high enough to show flashes of bare leg when I walk.
And then there’s the hickey he gave me, visible for anyone to see.
I step out of the fitting room.
Elio goes still.
His jaw tightens. Knuckles whiten where they grip the chair arms. His eyes track down my body slowly, methodically, like he’s committing every inch to memory.
I turn in a slow circle. Let him see the bare back. The way the fabric clings to my ass. The hickey on my neck like a brand.
“Is it too much?”
His voice comes out clipped. “It’s perfect.”
“You don’t think it’s a bit—” I smooth my hands down my hips, watching his throat bob. “Provocative?”
“Keep it on.” Not a request. An order. His control fraying at the edges.
