Cazzo.She still doesn't understand.
I'm there before she takes two steps, blocking the door with my body. I'm immovable. Inevitable.
"You'll what?" I ask quietly. Too quietly. It's the kind of quiet that makes grown men nervous. "Call the police? Tell them what? That the man who saved you from a mugging has been admiring you? That you invited him for coffee? That you agreed to have dinner with him tonight?"
"The pictures?—"
"On your phone now. I sent them but I can claim you downloaded yourself from a cloud you gave me access to?" I tilt my head. "The ones on my phone show a woman in public places where anyone could photograph her? What law have I broken,piccola? What crime can you prove?"
She stares at me, and I can see her brilliant mind working through it. She's working through the legal angles. The reality of her situation. She's smart enough to know I've thought of everything.
"You can't keep me here," she says, but there's less certainty now.
"I'm not keeping you here. You're free to walk out that door." I gesture behind me. "But you're not staying in this apartment tonight. That's not negotiable."
"You don't get to?—"
"Your lock is a joke. I picked it in less than a minute the first time. I've been walking in and out for months. How long before someone else figures that out? How long before someone with worse intentions than mine gets inside?"
"You're the one with bad intentions!"
"No." I let her see it now. The darkness. The violence. The thing I am underneath the expensive suits and charming smiles. "I'm the one who wants to own you. And I will have you. One way or another."
She backs away from me but there's nowhere to go. Her back hits the wall next to her bookshelf. She's trapped. Cornered. Mine.
"Why?" The question comes out as barely more than a whisper. "Why me?"
This is the moment. The moment I make her understand.
I close the distance between us slowly. Each step is deliberate. Predatory. She presses harder against the wall but she doesn't run, doesn't use the pepper spray still clutched in her hand. I can see it in her eyes, the way her breath catches, the way she doesn't pull away. She wants this. She just won't admit it yet.
I stop when I'm close enough to feel her breath. Close enough to smell the lavender in her hair and the fear on her skin. Close enough to see her pupils dilate.
"You saved my life without asking questions," I say, my voice low. Dark. "You're kind in a world full of cruelty. When I look at you, I feel human instead of like the weapon I've become." I reach up slowly and tuck a curl behind her ear. The left one.Always the left. "You're mine, Francesca. You were mine from the moment you touched me, and every day since has just been me waiting for you to realize it."
"This isn't love," she whispers. "This is?—"
"Does it matter what we call it?" I let my hand slide down to cup her jaw. She's trembling. "Love. Obsession. Possession. Madness. Call it whatever you want. The result is the same. You're mine, and I'm yours, and nothing changes that now."
"I'm not—" But her hands won't steady, and not entirely from fear. I can smell it on her. The unwanted arousal. The confusion. The way her body wants what her mind is screaming at her to reject.
"You are," I say quietly. "And you know it. That's why you didn't call the police before I got here. That's why you opened the door. That's why you're still standing here."
"I have pepper spray."
"You do." I don't move. I don't blink. "Are you going to use it?"
She looks down at the canister in her hand. She looks back up at me. And slowly, so slowly, her grip loosens.
"I should."
Her breath catches. "I should call the police."
"Should you?" I tilt my head. "What would you tell them?"
"I should hate you."
"Maybe." I smile. Just a little. Just enough to show teeth. "Do you?"
