It doesn’t help that I can still see him through the reflection in the glass.
He switches off the main lights, leaving a single lamp to cast a muted glow across his side of the room, then settles back onto the lounger. I breathe through my mouth and force myself to focus away from him, on the black water beyond the windows, the moonlight dancing over the sea for what feels like hours before sleep finally claims me.
When I wake it’s to the sun spilling through the tinted glass, warm and cozy against the bedding.
It takes a second to gain my bearings. For the horrors of yesterday to rush back in.
I chance a slow glance over my shoulder, unsure what I’ll find.
But the room is empty.
There’s no arrogant male sprawled on the lounger. No trace of his presence, except the deep imprint of his large frame in the coverlet on the opposite side of the bed.
Then I hear him, his voice sharp, clipped, and far off.
I slide from the mattress, the faint forward momentum of the yacht a low thrum through my bare feet as I tiptoe to the cabin door and strain to listen.
Raffael rarely raises his voice, but what carries from downstairs is unmistakably hostile.
I crack the door open an inch and tilt my ear to the opening.
“You don’t need to remind me of the terms,” he snarls. “I’m well aware.”
Who’s here?
I ease the door wider, creep to the top of the staircase, and hesitantly peer over the banister.
He’s nowhere in sight, but his voice carries from the open door of the salon.
“You’re not welcome,” he warns.
He must be on the phone, but with who? My father? His brothers?
He could be discussing any terms. But out of all the arrangements and takedowns he manages, I have a feeling he’s talking about the one that involves my future.
He scoffs. “I know what your fucking position is.”
I ease down the first step, not wanting to miss a word.
“I’m telling you—she’s undermyprotection. Make another threat and I’ll?—”
The statement catches me off guard, my attention too attuned to his conversation that I slip and miss the next stair. I gasp, grabbing wildly for the railing, not gaining a strong enough grip before my ass hits the step below with a thud.
The yacht falls silent.
The conversation mute.
My heart thunders in my throat as I freeze.
Then Raffael appears in the salon doorway, already dressed in tailored authority, sleeves rolled, hair damp, his phone heldto his ear as his lethal gaze locks on me seated halfway down the stairs.
He snaps something in rapid-fire Italian, the sinful accent coating a biting tone before he ends the call and pockets the cell.
“Juvenile snooping doesn’t look good on you.” His fury fades so fast it leaves a chill. In its place comes a slow burn of something cruel as he devours me with a look that feels both punishing and condescending. “Although my shirt certainly does.”
And just like that my hatred is reborn. My glare awakened.
He jerks his chin toward his cabin. “Go get dressed. Breakfast is being served. Then it’s time for you to fulfill your obligation.”
