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A violent jolt of heat shoots straight to my core. My breath stutters, my pulse racing in a rapid, frantic rhythm that betrays every dirty secret in my body.

"Deal," I whisper, my throat suddenly dry.

"Five minutes, Pet," Romeo murmurs, his lips brushing so close to the crown of my head that I feel the warm gust of his exhale. "You better run fast. Because the moment the clock strikes, I'm coming to claim my prize."

I don't wait for him to count.

I spin on the balls of my feet and melt into the dark like a ghost.

I move without a sound, sliding my toes along the polished floorboards, letting my heightened senses take total command. I know this floor plan intimately. I know that twenty paces down the main corridor lies the library. I know that beneath the second arched window on the west wall, the floorboards have a slight dip that avoids creaking.

Behind me, the grandfather clock in the foyer begins its rhythmic, hollow ticking: one, two, three.

I don't choose the obvious hiding spots. I don't crawl under the massive four-poster bed in the master suite, and I don't tuck myself into the deep mahogany wardrobes where the scent of cedar would trap me. Romeo is a stalker. He has studied every inch of my habits for three years. He knows I love the library; he knows I love the cushions in the corner of the music room.

So I bypass both.

I slip down the narrow spiral staircase of cold limestone that leads toward the ancient wine cellars beneath the east wing. The air changes instantly, cooling by ten degrees, smelling of damp volcanic stone, aged oak casks, and dried lavender hung from the stone arches.

Halfway down the curved corridor of barrels, there is a recessed alcove carved into the bedrock where an antique tasting table sits behind two massive, upright casks of Barolo.

I slide into the narrow space between the rough stone and the curved wooden stave of the barrel.

I press my back flat against the cold bedrock, pulling my knees up toward my chest, tucking the hem of my chemise over my shins. I close my eyes, even though it makes no difference in the blackness, and focus entirely on controlling my breathing. Inhale through the nose. Exhale through parted lips. Quiet as falling snow.

Minutes bleed past in the heavy, quiet.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The grandfather clock upstairs chimes twelve times, the low brass tolls vibrating down through the stone foundations.

Midnight.

The hunt has begun.

For the first two minutes, there is only the distant groan of the villa settling in the wind and the faint, rhythmic lap of waves against the cliff below.

Then, the air shifts.

A draft flows down the spiral staircase, carrying a scent that makes every hair on my arms stand straight up: dark Cuban tobacco, aged scotch, and the clean warmth of the predator who owns me.

He didn't wear shoes.

Romeo is barefoot, moving across the stone with the silent, terrifying stealth of a panther. I cannot hear his footsteps, but I can feel the subtle change in air pressure as his massive frame enters the cellar corridor.

"I can smell you, Kitten," his voice whispers into the darkness.

The sound bounces off the damp stone walls, making it impossible to pinpoint his exact location. It sounds like he is ten yards away. It sounds like he is standing right in front of me.

"You wore the lavender oil from your bath," he purrs, his words slow, dripping with lazy confidence. "And your heart is pounding so loud I can practically hear the blood rushing in your veins from the staircase. Did you really think you could hide from the man who spent three years tracking your every breath?"

I press my lips together, refusing to make a sound, my fingernails digging into my palms.

He is bluffing. He is trying to bait me into moving, trying to get my heels to scrape against the stone.

The scent of his skin grows thicker and warmer, drifting past the front of the Barolo barrels. I hear the faintest whisper of denim as his trousers brush against wood: five feet away.

He pauses.