“Come with me.”
“Where are we going?”
“You’re in no position to ask questions,” he says flatly. “Move.”
I dig my heels into the thick carpet. “No.” He might be the boss of whatever empire he’s running, but he isn’t the boss of me.
He doesn’t yell or grab me like I expect him to. He simply folds those powerful arms across his chest and stares at me.
I lift my chin and stare right back, refusing to look away first. His whisky-brown eyes burn into mine, digging deep like he can see every terrified, defiant thought racing through my head. Like he’s peeling me open without touching me.
My heart pounds so hard I can hear it in my ears. The silence stretches, seconds bleed into what feels like minutes. Finally, Ihuff out a sharp breath, hating myself for breaking first as I step forward.
I swear I catch the ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as I walk past him.
Bastard.
I walk ahead of him down the long hallway, painfully aware of every step he takes behind me. He’s too close. The heat of his body radiates against my back, sinking through the thin silk of the wedding dress. My skin prickles, a traitorous warmth curling low in my belly that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the way his presence fills the space around me. I hate it. I hate how aware I am of him.
“Careful,” he murmurs, voice low and close to my ear. “You keep walking like that and I might think you’re trying to give me a show.”
I glance over my shoulder, shooting him a glare. “And here I thought kidnappers had better things to do than stare at their hostages’ asses.”
His chuckle is dark, almost amused. “Keep talking, Eleonora. It’s almost cute how you think you’re a smart ass.”
We pass several closed doors before he steps around me and opens one, holding it wide. I step inside.
This room is bigger than the one we just left. The same dark, luxurious palette, but the far wall is almost entirely glass, opening onto a stunning garden. Manicured hedges, blooming flowers, a fountain trickling softly in the center. It looks peaceful. Almost romantic. The kind of view that would be beautiful if I weren’t a prisoner.
“This is your room from now on,” Nico says, closing the door behind us. “Clothes, and toiletries will be brought to you.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “How thoughtful. Should I send you a thank-you card for my luxury cell?”
He doesn’t smile. Instead, he steps closer, too close, until I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. My breath stalls in my lungs. He reaches into the pocket of his slacks and pulls out a sleek black blade.
For one terrifying second, my heart stops. I think he’s going to cut me. Or worse stab me with it. But he simply catches my bound wrists, flips the knife, and slices through the zip tie in one clean motion.
The plastic falls away, and a broken sound escapes me as blood rushes back into my hands. Pins and needles explode across my skin. I flex my fingers, rubbing the raw, angry marks on my wrists.
I look up at him. He’s still standing inches away, watching me. “What?” I snap, voice shaky. “Are you expecting me to thank you?”
He huffs, a short, irritated sound, and takes two steps back. “The second they bring you new clothes, I want that fucking dress off you.
I lift my chin. “Why?”
“Can’t you just do as you’re told for once?” he growls.
“No.”
“So you plan on moving around like you’re still Gallo’s bride.”
“If I want to, yes.”
Something dangerous flashes in his eyes. He closes the distance again, knife still in his hand. My pulse spikes. He stops right in front of me, so close I can feel the warmth of his breath on my forehead.
“Well… I won’t have that.”
Before I can react, he hooks the blade under the delicate fabric at my shoulder. The cold steel kisses my skin. Then, slowly, agonizingly slowly, he drags the knife downward.
