“Yes.”
He doesn’t answer, just moves with that quick, calculated, silent efficiency I’ve already glimpsed. Pressing something soft over my mouth. Cloth. Chemical sweetness. I jerk hard, but he already has my wrist in his grasp, and his arm locks across mychest as he holds me in place, his hand still over my mouth. The world tilts.
No. Not now. Not when I am this close.
I fight despite knowing how utterly pointless it is. I twist, kick back, catch his shin hard enough to earn a curse, but the drug is already in me, pulling at the edges of the vision, softening the lights, stealing distance from the space between one breath and the next.
The helicopter blurs. The children blur. The only thing that stays clear is Stefano’s eyes locked on me, his body against mine. He is the last thing I see before the dark takes me, Stefano Savarese looking down at me with that too beautiful face of his, and that devilish smirk.
Chapter Three
Maya
The first thing I know is that I am not dead. The second is that someone has changed my clothes and put me in a bed.
That should probably be comforting. But it isn’t. Beds can be cages with nice linens, and the one beneath me is too soft, too expensive, and too unfamiliar to be anything but a problem. The sheets smell faintly of lavender and fabric softener. The awful chemical sweetness from the cloth still coats the back of my tongue, dull and bitter every time I swallow.
I keep my eyes closed and listen. No voices, no footsteps, no definite sound except the quiet hum of air conditioning, the soft sound of water bubbling, moving through pipes, or a fountain.
My mind takes inventory of my body before I try to move. No restraints. No cuffs. No tape. My ankles are free. My wrists are free. My dress from the auction is gone. Someone changed me into a black silk robe that ties at my waist and falls to mid-thigh, modest enough to avoid immediate murder and intimate enough to make my jaw tighten.
I open my eyes slowly. The ceiling above me is high, white, and crossed by dark wooden beams. A fan turns slowly overhead. The room is large, with pale walls, heavy curtains, a sitting area near the windows, and furniture that looks antique. On the nightstand is a glass of water, two pills, and no note.
I stare at the pills, ignoring the note.
“Absolutely not,” I mutter. My voice sounds rough.
I sit up too fast and immediately regret it. The room dips sideways, then rights itself with a slow, insulting sway. I close my eyes, breathe through my nose, and wait for my stomach to stop considering rebellion. The memory of Stefano’s hand over my mouth comes back in pieces.
The children, where are they?
A streak of panic runs through my body, pushing me to action. I get out of bed before the room has fully agreed to hold still. My feet hit a rug so soft it annoys me on contact.
Rich men should have cold floors. Stone. Marble. Something dramatic and uncomfortable. This room is warm, quiet, and deliberately soothing, which makes it all the more irritating. A pretty room is still a cell if the person who put you there owns the locks.
Except when I reach the door and turn the handle, it opens without resistance. I stand there for a moment, staring out into the hallway.
“Well,” I whisper. “That’s rude.”
The hallway beyond is wide and dim, lined with dark wood floors, pale walls, and framed black-and-white photographs of Miami from some era when men committed crimes with hats and better posture. A runner rug muffles sound beneath my bare feet. No one stands directly outside my room.
Which means the cage is larger than I expected. Or Stefano wants me to think it is. I step into the hall. No one stops me. Three steps. Five. Ten. Still nothing.
At the far end of the corridor, a man in a black suit stands near a staircase with his hands folded in front of him. His gaze moves over me once, quick and professional, then returns to the wall as if half-dressed abducted women wander through the house at dawn all the time.
I lift my brows. “Nothing? Not even a comment?”
He still says nothing.
“Nice suit,” I compliment sarcastically.
Still nothing.
I keep walking. The hallway opens onto a landing that overlooks a foyer below, all pale stone, dark wood, and a chandelier big enough to qualify as a structural hazard. Two men stand near the front doors. Another crosses the lower hall, speaking quietly into an earpiece. Cameras sit tucked into corners where the casual eye might miss them.
This is not a home. It’s a fortress.
I descend the stairs, one hand skimming the rail because the drug is not completely worn off, and pride alone doesn’t protect against falling down a staircase. The men at the front door look at me, then look away. No one tells me to go back to my room. No one blocks my way or reaches for me. No one even seems surprised to see me wandering the house freely.
