“What? No!” The protest escapes before I can stop it.
His eyebrow raises slightly, the only sign that my defiance registers. “The shirt covers everything important. But if you’d rather stay in wet denim, you might as well head back to your room. There’s no place for you to sit in here.”
“But I—”
Before I can form a full response, he crosses to a chest near one of the bookshelves and pulls out a thick, dark blanket. Holding it up, he explains, “For your modesty.”
The way he says it makes it clear he thinks it’s a joke, and for some reason, that angers me. I’m not a joke. I’m a real human. One he’s forced here because of something my mom did. How’s that fair?
My hands shake so badly I nearly spill the whiskey as I set it down and snatch the blanket from his outstretched hand. Then I awkwardly pop open the button on my jeans and lower the zipper with one hand, while holding the blanket up to shield my body with the other.
Wiggling out of the jeans proves harder than I thought. The wet fabric clings stubbornly to my thighs. But I manage, and the relief of being free from the cold, damp denim is immediate, though it leaves me feeling horribly vulnerable.
As I wrap the blanket around my lower half, I contemplate removing my panties. Thanks to the wet jeans, they’re soaked. But I decide against it when even the thought of taking them off makes my stomach clench.
I pick up my glass again, taking a large swallow that burns all the way down. The warmth spreads through my chest, and I close my eyes briefly, savoring the sensation.
When I open them, Raffaele is watching me with an intensity that steals my breath.
“Sit,” he commands, gesturing to the chair. I obey without thinking, perching nervously on the edge with the blanket tucked securely around me.
He reaches for something on the side table—a plate with what looks like a sandwich. “If you’re going to be drinking whiskey, you should have something to eat.”
My stomach clenches painfully at the sight of food, but I shake my head. “I don’t want to increase my debt.”
Another dark laugh escapes him, the sound rich and dangerous. “Increase your debt? You don’t understand your situation at all, do you?” He leans forward, his expression suddenly serious. “I already own you. This isn’t like prison time where you can serve multiple life sentences. You. Belong. To. Me.”
The words hit me like a physical blow, and I take another large gulp of whiskey to hide my reaction. It burns less this time, warming me from the inside out.
“You say I belong to you—”
“You do.”
“Right,” I huff. “But what does that mean?”
He raises his glass, but instead of drinking, he slowly swirls the deep red liquid around. “Does your cat belong to you?” he asks.
I frown, not getting the relevance. “Of course. He’s my cat.”
“What does that mean?”
I roll my lips, unsure how to answer. Having ownership of a pet is one of those things you can say, and then everyone gets what it means. But is it really just as simple with humans?
No, I decide. It can’t be. Because I also belong to Onyx. He’s my fur baby, my everything. When he plays or gets the zoomies, I laugh with joy and happiness. When he cuddles into me and snores his little head off, my heart swells with love for the furry creature.
“I’ve changed my answer,” I say, meeting Raffaele’s gaze. “Onyx and I belong to each other.”
The corner of his mouth turns upward in a barely-there smile. “Touché,” he allows.
Silence stretches once more, and I’m almost certain he isn’t going to say anything else. That really irks me. The least you can do when taking people captive is explain their roles. Lay down ground rules and expectations. It’s what the men in my books do.
“Belonging to me means you do what I tell you,” Raffaele finally says. “You’ll live here, under my roof. If you ever gain any freedom, it’s because I’ve allowed it. Same goes for anything you get.”
I nod, already knowing that much. “Is there… umm… is there anything I can do to improve my situation?” I ask on a whisper.
His sage green eyes sparkle with amusement. “What are you offering?”
My cheeks burn scarlet at the heavy innuendo in his question. “I just mean…” God, I hate how insecure I sound and act. In my head, I’m demanding answers. I’m putting my foot down and making him tell me exactly what he wants from me instead of the vague words that tell me nothing. But in reality, I just mumble, “Nothing.”
