He’s barely holding himself together. And some sick, broken part of me thrills at it.
This is what you wanted, that dark voice whispers again.You wanted to see his true face.
I see the moment he stops fighting it.
He moves so fast I don’t have time to react. One second he’s standing beside the table. The next he’s bending down, hooking an arm around my waist, and hauling me up over his shoulder like I weigh nothing.
The world inverts. Blood rushes to my head. Rosa’s tiny dress rides up my thighs, and I scramble frantically to push it down, suddenly aware that half the restaurant can probably see my underwear.
“Cristiano!” I pound on his back with my fists. “Put me down!”
He doesn’t answer. He just keeps walking.
I catch a glimpse of Danny, still frozen at our table, his mouth hanging open in shock. A waiter flattens himself against the wall as we pass. Every single person in this restaurant is watching Cristiano Montoni carry a screaming woman toward the exit, and not one of them moves to stop him.
“This is kidnapping!” I’m still struggling, still pounding uselessly against the solid muscle of his back. “I’ll call the police!”
His hand slides up to grip my bare thigh. Holding me in place like I’m something precious he’s stolen.
“You can call whoever you like,” he says calmly. “After.”
A shiver goes through me.
After what?
We pass through the restaurant doors into a private corridor. The noise of the casino fades, replaced by the muffled hum of machinery and the click of Cristiano’s expensive shoes on marble.
“Put medown.” I’m breathless now, half from the blood pooling in my head and half from something else entirely. “You can’t just— This isn’t— People don’tdothis—”
He laughs coldly. “I should have done this weeks ago.”
He stops in front of an elevator and presses a button, and the doors slide open immediately.
Cristiano carries me inside and sets me on my feet.
I stumble, disoriented from being upside down, and he steadies me with hands on my waist. My back hits the elevator wall. He doesn’t let go.
The doors close. We’re alone.
I should scream at him, slap him across his perfect face, knee him in the groin, do something to make him pay for humiliating me in front of all those people. Instead, I stand there panting, staring up at him, acutely aware of how close we are. How his hands feel on my waist. How his chest rises and falls with breaths almost as ragged as mine.
“You,” he says slowly, “are the most infuriating woman I have ever met.”
“And you’re a psychopath.”
“Yes.” He doesn’t deny it or even flinch. “But I’m your psychopath, Mina. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be.”
“Easier for who?”
“Both of us.” His thumb traces a small circle on my hip, and heat blooms beneath my skin. “You can keep fighting and running away. You can keep going on dates with men who bore you to tears. But we both know how this ends.”
“With me in a cage?”
“With you in my bed.” His eyes drop to my mouth. “Where you belong.”
I should have a comeback for that, sharp and cutting, something to wipe that satisfied look off his face.
But then his expression softens, just slightly.
