Page 56 of Brutal Heir

Everyone had their own childhood trauma. Mine was a mother who raised me to fear the world.

While others were taught to reach for the moon and stars…I was taught to be content with the rocks at my feet. My first step toward freedom was supposed to be defying my mother and coming to Europe.

Instead, I was falling deeper into someone else’s control. Sebastian Diamanti would take me from baby steps to straight off a cliff.

There was no point in hiding in the bathroom all morning. It was silly to assume he harbored some fascination bordering on obsession for me. I wasn’t that interesting of a person to inspire such fixed devotion.

After brushing the water from my eyes, I rose and turned off the shower.

And that was when I realized he had taken what little clothes I still had when he left.

* * *

I stepped onto the suite balcony, hugging the lapels of the plush, Shangri-La white terrycloth robe against my throat.

It was the most magnificent view of the Eiffel Tower I’d ever seen. The sun was just rising, throwing the structure into silhouette against a bright winter morning sky filled with muted blues and blood-orange reds. The hotel room was far enough and high enough to showcase a view of all of Paris.

I couldn't believe, after all that had just happened, that it was still barely morning.

“Hello, beautiful.”

I turned.

Sebastian sat in a black wicker bucket chair behind an elegant table. Like me, he wore one of the hotel robes. He folded the Italian newspaper he was reading and rose.

My heart skipped a beat as he neared.

Even in a robe, bare feet, and with wet hair, he still radiated power.

He tilted my head up. “Say my name.”

“What? Why?”

His lips lifted into a smile. “Because I find I like the sound of my name on your lips. I want to hear it again.”

I couldn’t imagine why. He was the one with the sexy Italian accent, with all the rolling “r’s” and floating vowels. Although not as harsh as the average New Yorker, my accent bore its mark with all the short nasal vowels.

With a lick of my lips, I uttered, “Sebastian.”

After last night, it felt dangerous to say his name.

And worse that I liked it.

He leaned down and brushed his lips against mine. “Say it again.”

His tongue swept over my lips as if wanting to taste the word, and I obeyed.

“Sebastian.”

The contact sent a shiver of awareness up my spine. With my palms pressed against his chest, I could feel the steady vibration of his heartbeat.

He ran the back of his hand down the exposed skin of my throat just above the robe collar. “Brava ragazza.”

My thighs clenched.

There it was again. A physical response to him calling me his good girl.

Despite my conviction to run as far as possible in the opposite direction, if he ordered me to my knees—again—I’d do it. Again.