The Villain’s Captive by Bella J.

13

It was insane.I knew this. There was no plausible reason for me to feel the way I did. Why my body burned for this man’s touch. A man who snatched me from my world and thrust me into his, and I still had no clue why.

He hurt me. Kidnapped me. Killed a man, and confessed to many more. Yet here I was, seduced and submitted, craving a release my body had no right to demand. But there was something about him. Something familiar. Call me crazy, but was it possible that I knew about him lurking somewhere around me? That I knew he was watching me?

Maybe I did. Perhaps on some subconscious level I had always been aware of him silently watching me from the shadows. Could that have been possible? Or had I officially gone mad?

While his hand cupped my sex—stroking, touching, brushing—I felt something other than fear and hatred and cold terror. But in between the sensual longing and burning desire, there were many questions stacked in chaotic rows inside my head.

My father.

My grandfather.

Me.

Elijah.

My body craving his touch as if it had always known him.

Was this what insanity felt like? The voices tearing you apart, ripping you in two—your body and mind at war with each other?

His touch was hot, his presence heavy, and the longer I lingered within this high, the harder I would fall once I came down.

The blunt intrusion of his finger forced a whimper to slip from my lips, my hips rocking, rubbing myself against his palm.

So close. I was so fucking close I could feel it build all the way from my toes, growing stronger, demanding more.

He rubbed his cheek against mine as he leaned over my shoulder, one hand between my legs, the other gripping my hip. “If you come, I’ll take it as an invitation to fuck you.”

I leaned back, sinking into him, eyes closed and body willing as I kept control of his wrist, steadying his hand, while my hips rocked and swayed.

“You’re close, aren’t you? I can feel it. Your body is ready to fucking snap in half.”

God. All I wanted was to tip over that ledge, to fall and drown in an endless abyss of depravity. Because that was what this was. Fucking depravity. A sordid kind of madness. An erotic game of power.

His hand traveled from my waist, his palm easing across the soft white silk and covering my breast, kneading while the tension built, taking control of every muscle and every thought.

“Listen to me, Charlotte.” His voice dipped low, husky, laced with a sensual allure that kissed every inch of my skin. “If you come around my finger, you better be prepared to come with my cock inside your cunt.”

It was foul and vile, something a woman like me should have found insulting and disgusting. But instead, it was like oxygen around an open fire, spurring it on to burn brighter, fiercer.

I spread my legs wider, needing more, needing it fast and hard.

“Is that what you want, my little cellist? To be fucked by me, your stalker?” I whimpered as he pressed his lips against my ear. “Your psychopath?”

“Jesus.” I launched up, the nightgown falling down my legs. My cheeks burned hot with embarrassment. “I’m sick of your goddamn games.”

“Yet you rode my finger as if you loved playing.”

“What the hell is this?”

He placed a palm on his crotch, the same palm he had between my legs a second ago, and adjusted himself before straightening. “This is a real fucked up situation with the potential to get so goddamn complicated we’ll both drown in it. But here’s the thing,” he stalked closer while I stood my ground, “as long as you play for me with that cello settled between your legs, the entire world can burn down around me.” He lifted his hand, cupped my cheek, and I could smell myself on his fingers. “I will have you, Charlotte. They won’t take you from me. They’d have to kill me first.”

“There you go again, talking about they. You keep going around in circles, giving me nothing.”

He bit his lip, and like a goddamn veil, the mask of secrecy fell over his expression. “The less you know, the better.”

“Bullshit. People always say that when, in fact, the more you know the better you can prepare yourself.” My heart raced, and my mind was on the verge of fucking crashing. “First you mention my grandfather, my father—a man I have never seen before. God, my mom never even spoke about him. And now…now you’re bringing him up like he’s the fucking topic of a casual conversation.”

He dragged his fingers through his hair, and the veins in his hand bulged. His silence was excruciating, and I had to fight the urge to wrap my hands around his neck and force the truth out of him.

“Tell me what the hell is going on, or I swear to God I will jump off this motherfucking yacht the second you’re not looking.” I was desperate and at the point where I’d threaten the goddamn Pope if I had to.

He sucked air through his teeth, the black fabric of his dress shirt adding more mystery to a man who already bathed in it.

Okay,” he conceded, “I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

Relief eased over my shoulders.

“Over dinner.”

“Dinner?”

“You have to eat, Charlotte.” He brushed past me toward the door. “I’ll go prepare dinner, and then we can talk.”

I arched a brow. “You cook?”

“There’s so much more to me than just killing people.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Maybe you’ll be able to see that someday.”

“And maybe you’ll start to realize that there’s more to me than just a cello.”

He scoffed. “Do not fool yourself. That instrument is the largest part of who you are. The cello is in your blood.”

The sound of his heavy footsteps resounded as he walked out, and all I could do was stare at the open door after he left. He didn’t lock me in this time. No slam of the door or click of a lock. What did this mean? Could I trust it?

God, I’d be a fool if I did.

The weight of everything that had happened weakened me and forced me down as I fell on the bed, my back hitting the mattress.

I wasn’t sure what fucked with my head more—the fact that he brought me two breaths away from an orgasm, or the fact that I liked it. That I didn’t want him to stop. Every inch of my skin was sensitive, my sense of smell and touch heightened all because of him—my kidnapper. A confessed contract killer. What the hell did that make me? A masochist. An idiot. A profoundly stupid human being.

I counted the ceiling lights, twirling a curl around my finger. Eight lights cast the room under a blanket of cool white. To think that I had never traveled outside of the US, and here I was in Rome, yet I hadn’t seen a sliver of it. Kidnapped, drugged, transported. All these years, I suspected the universe had some personal vendetta against me.

A talent for music threatened by an immune disorder.

The most beautiful man I had ever seen stained with the blood of his victims.

A trip to the world’s most romantic city ruined by abduction.

All of this was just a giant vortex of one ultimate mindfuck, and my mind was teetering at the edge of breaking. The worst part? I was starting to wonder if he had to offer me my freedom, would I have left? Would I have left knowing this man knew my father, my grandfather—had the answers to so many questions—all for the sake of freedom?

At least, my version of freedom.

Would I have run if I had the chance? If I were totally honest with myself, I’d admit the answer would most likely have been no.

A defeated sigh brushed past my lips, and I forced myself to get up and get dressed.

There were two double-door closets filled with designer labeled clothing. Ralph Lauren, Donna Karan, Vera Wang. Ranging from dresses to skirts to blouses, rompers and stylish jumpsuits. The shoes and handbags alone made the closet look like a Louis Vuitton boutique. Who the hell was this person Elijah referred to as his friend?

An all-black, long-sleeve jumpsuit was the nearest thing I could find that remotely looked like something I would wear. The low-cut neckline revealed far more skin than I had hoped, so I wore my hair loose, hoping the curls would drape over my shoulders and down my chest to hide most of it.

“Miss Moore?”

My heart slammed against my chest as I turned, frightened by the unfamiliar voice.

A man dressed in a black suit, white shirt, and black tie stood by the door like a goddamn powerhouse of pure muscle and brut. “Mr. Mariano said to escort you to the deck when you’re ready.”

“Who are you?”

“My name is James, Mr. Russo’s head of security.”

“Mr. Russo?”

He nodded. “The man who owns The Empress.”

I scowled.

“This yacht,” he clarified. “May I suggest a jacket or scarf? Autumn nights at sea could get quite chilly.”

At sea. Italy. It still felt surreal.

I shook my head lightly. “Okay…um, give me a minute.”

“Of course. I’ll be right outside the door.”

I smiled, trying my best not to show how damn awkward I felt. This wasn’t my world, adorned with wealth, yachts, designer clothing, and heads of security prowling around in Armani suits.

Please, God, let there be alcohol at dinner.

I searched through what seemed like two hundred pairs of shoes and decided on a pair of black and silver closed-toe heel pumps about half a size too big for my feet, but it just had to do.

From the corner of my eye, I spotted the black scarf Elijah had blindfolded me with. The memory stirred the ache between my legs, my body still hellbent on proving desire was stronger than common sense.

I grabbed the scarf and wrapped it around my shoulders, hoping it was enough to ward off the autumn chill. Just as I was about to walk out, I glanced in the direction of the bed, sheets all ruffled and unmade. The perfectionist in me cringed as I bit my thumbnail, trying to suppress the need to smooth out the creases.

“Goddammit,” I muttered to myself, succumbing to my pedantic tendencies, lifting the sheet and draping it over the bed, easing my palm across the silk until every crease was gone.

Plumping up the pillow, I glanced down at the bedside table and saw the bottle of perfume placed next to the crystal lamp.

Could it be…my perfume?

From the moment I woke, I was caught up in this whirlwind of madness, not noticing it before now.

I picked it up, my fingertips gently brushing against the blush pink glass bottle. A pang of grief snuck up on me as I turned it to look at the bottom, the tiny red heart doodled on the label sticker. It wasn’t a new bottle, or a coincidence. This was my perfume, the bottle I bought for myself a few weeks ago.

“I’ve always wanted to know about that.”

I didn’t turn to face him.

“You worked two jobs, lived in a crummy apartment, and scraped by each day. Yet you managed to afford such an expensive brand of perfume.”

My skin flushed as I listened to his footsteps approach and still right behind me.

“Why?”

I traced a fingertip along the little heart. “I would think that since you know me so well, you’d know why.”

“Some things can’t be learned by observance alone.” He was so close, I could feel him breathe over my shoulder as his authority wrapped around me like I was already his. As if he had claimed me a long time ago.

“It was a gift from my mother on my sixteenth birthday,” I started, my heart already hurting. “She said that perfume is the keeper of memories. That a scent can breathe life and color into a faded memory, and make it seem like yesterday.” Tears prickled my eyes, and I took a deep breath before placing the bottle down on the table. “I’ve been buying myself this exact brand of perfume ever since, drawing that little heart on each one.” I turned to face him, surprisingly unintimidated by how close he was. “How did you know to take this? To bring it here?”

“I knew it meant something to you, I just didn’t know why.” He reached up and brushed the back of his hand down my cheek. “You loved your mother.”

“She was all I had.” The truth in those words made my insides bleed. Not a day went by that I didn’t think of her, miss her, long to hear her voice one last time.

I glanced down, making a steeple with my fingers. “She wasn’t just my mom, Elijah. She was my best friend too.” I couldn’t fight the grief any longer. My heart, my soul, my body—all of me was just too fractured to pretend I could talk about her without breaking down.

A tear escaped, and I was back there in that dark hole. A place where I was alone, where I had nothing or no one to help ease the grief and the pain of losing not just my mother but a part of myself as well. I was completely and utterly alone. My tears were my own. My loneliness and heartache were my own.

It was a moment of profound weakness, the moment I crumbled beneath the overwhelming need for comfort, warmth, anything that could lessen the pain. And he was so close, so damn close, I couldn’t fight it. I couldn’t stop myself from leaning into him, pressing my cheek against his chest, weeping as if I had only lost her yesterday.

Perfume.

Memories.

Yesterday.

Little did I know that I had never truly broken down before. I had never allowed myself the freedom to cry and mourn and hurt without limitations. Thoughts of how I had to stay strong, how I had to keep moving on and live a life that stood still for no one, kept me from emptying my soul of the grief that had crippled me ever since.

But here, now, with him, I broke. I shattered. And I fell.

Into the arms of my captor.

The Musician.