If you want me, take me.
He'd offered himself. Acknowledged the tension between us. Admitted he wanted this despite knowing how fucked up it was.
And I'd walked away.
Because I needed him to be sure. Needed this to be his choice, not just a response to captivity and isolation and Stockholm syndrome. Needed to know that when I finally gave in to this obsession, Stefan would be choosing me. Not just accepting me because he had no other option.
My phone buzzed. Text from Sandro.
We need to talk about Giuseppe. He's making moves. Tomorrow, 9 AM.
Right. The real world. The consequences of keeping Stefan. The war that was probably coming whether I was ready for it or not.
I typed back:I'll be there.
Then I looked at the closed door to Stefan's room.
Tomorrow I'd deal with Giuseppe and the fallout and whatever strategic nightmare I'd created by refusing to let his son go.
Tonight, I'd replay Stefan's words in my head and imagine what would have happened if I'd said yes instead of not yet.
If I'd closed the distance between us and found out if his mouth tasted as good as it looked.
If I'd stripped away his defiance and made him admit exactly how much he wanted this.
If I'd stopped fighting the obsession and let it consume us both.
Not yet.
But soon.
Because Stefan Romano had just changed the game.
And I'd never been good at resisting things I wanted.
CHAPTER 7: STEFAN
TEN DAYS INTOcaptivity and I had to assume my family was looking for me by now.
Ten days missing. No ransom demands. No body. No contact. Giuseppe probably thought I was dead—his disappointing youngest son who'd failed one simple mission and gotten himself killed for it. My brothers were probably relieved. One less weak link in the family. One less person to parade around at functions.
Part of me knew I should feel guilty about that. About letting them think I was dead. About not trying harder to escape or send some kind of message that I was alive.
But mostly I felt free.
For the first time in my life, nobody was telling me how to dress or who to talk to or what version of myself to present to the world. Yes, I was technically a prisoner. Locked in a room with no way out. At the mercy of a man who could hurt me whenever he chose.
But in some ways, I was freer than I'd ever been.
No one was watching my every move. No one was criticizing my clothes or my posture or the way I spoke. No one was telling me to smile more or talk less or be more charming to some politician's wife who wanted to discuss her charity event.
Here, I could just... be.
Even if "here" was a comfortable cage controlled by Matteo DeLuca.
Speaking of Matteo.
The lock clicked at nine AM instead of the usual seven. I looked up from the book I'd been pretending to read—some thriller about corporate espionage that couldn't hold my attention because I kept thinking about last night. About the way Matteo had touched my jaw. About the challenge I'd thrown at him. About the hunger in his eyes when he'd walked away.
