The Villain’s Captive by Bella J.
17
“My God, Elijah.”
I had no words after what he had just told me. The entire time I sat there listening to him, watching his expression go from angered to sad and heartbroken, was painful to witness. There was no way I could have imagined what it had to be like for him as a boy. Apart from never knowing my father, my childhood was good. Great, even. My mom and I didn’t have a lot of money, but we had each other. We had love. There wasn’t a day in my life when I felt neglected or unloved. I never went to bed with an empty stomach or a broken heart.
Elijah swallowed his last mouthful of whiskey, the ice clinking against the glass. His gaze drifted everywhere but at me, actively avoiding eye contact. It was the first glimpse of vulnerability I had seen in him. The first time he was something other than a hardened man, but rather a man who felt. Who hurt. Who carried around a past heavy enough to cripple even the strongest. I cleared my throat. “Did you ever find her? Figured out what happened to Ellie?”
His gaze was fixed on the empty glass, swirling the ice around and around. “No,” he answered abruptly and poured himself another drink. “I never found her.”
My chest constricted. “Do you think Roland really—”
“I don’t know. And I don’t know which is worse—not knowing whether she’s alive, or knowing that she’s dead.” There was a faraway look in his cognac eyes, as if his thoughts drifted back to the past, to a memory of the little sister he lost yet wasn’t sure how.
“You know,” his finger played along the rim of his glass, “after listening to my story, your first question was about something that affected me rather than searching for an answer that affected you.”
“What do you mean?”
“You didn’t ask me who that man was. The man in the beret. The man who gave me the means to kill my own mother.”
Unsettled, I shifted in my seat. “I think your suffering as a child trumps my need for answers as an adult.”
“I don’t need your pity.” His words were laced with poison. “I didn’t tell you the pathetic story of my past so you can pity me.”
“I’m not—”
“I merely told you so you could understand what kind of debt I owe your grandfather. I owe him my fucking life. Everything I am today is because of him. And you know what? He never pitied me.” He tapped a finger on the table. “Not once. We walked out of that fucking hell-house that night and never spoke about it again.”
“So, my suspicions are correct. The man who helped you is my grandfather.”
He leaned forward, leveling me with his intense stare, dark eyebrows furrowed, not saying a word.
“And now you’re repaying that debt by what? Kidnapping me?”
“By keeping you safe.”
“And that’s why you stalked me.”
He raised a brow. “Observed.”
“Whatever you want to call it.” I leaned forward, placing my elbows on the table, silver cutlery glinting under the dim light.
“I had to make sure you were protected.”
My insides tightened, the thought of him protecting me lighting a flicker of a flame inside my belly. “So, you’re a hitman turned babysitter, then?”
He snickered. “If that’s the way you choose to see it. No one knows my connection with your grandfather, which makes it easy for me to play both fields. To everyone else, I am The Musician—a faceless hitman with a hefty price tag and a one-hundred-percent success rate.”
“A one-hundred-percent success rate?” I slanted a brow. “What does that even mean?”
“It means I’ve never missed a target. Ever.”
Sweat beaded down my back even though the air was far from warm. My thoughts raced with images of him playing his role as The Musician, killing people without blinking. It scared me, reminded me of how easy it was for him to plant a bullet in Josh’s skull. But it also made this unexplainable attraction I felt toward him more…distorted. What kind of woman was I for being attracted to a killer? Why would I imagine having his hands all over my body when I knew those hands carried the blood of so many?
I cleared my throat, shifting uncomfortably. “Okay. So, we’re out here hiding on a yacht because the fucking mafia is after me?”
His lips pursed, his eyes searching my face. “In a nutshell, yes. Until recently, your grandfather’s identity was managed to be kept secret.”
“Until recently,” I muttered in a mocking tone. “Jesus.” I closed my eyes, rolling my head from side to side, practically feeling my muscles getting knotted by the second. “God, it feels like I’m trapped in some Al Capone movie, and I have no idea why I’m a part of all this. It sounds so…” I struggled to find the words, “so…not like me. Like it doesn’t fit into my mundane life. Can I have more wine?” I held up the empty bottle. “James. Big, scary-looking bodyguard guy.” I glanced around, James nowhere in sight. “Where is he? I need a whole crate of these bottles right about now.”
“I think you’ve had enough, Charlotte.”
“Oh, no.” I waved my finger in front of his face. “You do not get to kidnap me, drug me, drop all these fucking bombs on me, and tell me when I’ve had enough wine.” I stood. “No way, Master Musician kidnapper hitman stalker and whatever else you fucking are. Not today.”
My heeled pumps clicked across the floor as I walked to the bar which was stocked with every kind of alcohol you could think of. Shots, wine, beer, ciders, champagne—you name it, and this yacht stocked it. For a second, I felt overwhelmed with the endless possibilities of how I could drown this fog of confusion currently occupying my brain.
I spotted the tequila bottle and had one of those “ah-ha” moments, realizing that nothing helped a person forget about their problems quite like tequila did.
“Charlotte.” I heard Elijah come up behind me, but it didn’t stop me from reaching for a shot glass.
“I can promise you, your problems aren’t going to look any better tomorrow.”
“But it can make it look better now, which kinda is my short-term goal here.”
“Charlotte.” He wrapped his long fingers around my elbow, but I yanked free.
“Don’t touch me.” I opened the bottle, but just as I was about to pour tequila, he grabbed my elbow and twisted me around, causing me to drop the tequila.
Cold liquid splashed around my feet, glass pieces shattered with the pungent scent of alcohol instantly burning my nostrils. But neither the strong smell or the need to get drunk compared to the tension that instantly exploded around us, his eyes burning, his gaze hot and hungry.
His fingers tightened, his tongue darting out to lick his lips, leaving a tempting shimmer. I found myself wanting to taste it, wanting to feel it against my own lips which now ached with the need to be kissed. Devoured.
God. I had to fight it. I had to stop myself from giving in to the erotic pull that swirled inside me while staring into his eyes, feeling his fingers burn my flesh.
He stepped closer, glass cracking and breaking beneath his shoes. Would I end up being that glass? Broken and ruined beneath his feet? Surely, what I was feeling right now would only end in chaos.
The air around us turned static as he leaned down, my insides coiled with anticipation as he held me hostage with the power that radiated off him. Trapped. Caught and imprisoned.
I lifted my chin. “Earlier, when you said I became an obsession,” I breathed, “what did you mean?”
His fingers traced up my arm, setting my skin aflame, torturing me with such a simple touch. “I spent years watching you live your life…only to realize that I wanted to be in it.” His fingers cupped my chin. “Even if it meant spending the rest of my days in the shadows.”
He dragged his hand from my wrist, snaking it around my waist, abruptly pulling me against him. A breath escaped me with a huff, and my body powered up with a need to be filled.
He slipped a finger underneath the fabric on my shoulder, gently easing it down my arm. Logic demanded that I fight, that I object—but the primal instinct that burned throughout my body made it impossible.
“Tell me something,” he started, his gaze fixed on my naked shoulder. “There’s one thing I never could figure out about you.”
Intrigued, I held my tongue and focused on my labored breaths, trying hard to keep hold of a sliver of control.
He kissed my shoulder, the feel of his lips against my hot flesh causing me to whimper. “In all the years I’ve watched you, I haven’t seen you with a man once. Why?”
“Maybe I was. Maybe you weren’t looking.”
He brought his hand to my chest, his palms brushing against my nipple—now hard and needy. His fingers spread along my throat. “That’s impossible.”
“How so?”
His hold clamped down around my neck. “Because if I had seen you with a man,” he kissed along my jaw and stilled a breath away from my parted lips, “he’d be dead.”
It was a split-second of absolute madness, the moment he crashed his lips against mine, kissing me so hard the edge of the counter bit into my back. A growl tore from his throat, like an addict finally finding the fix he had craved.
I kissed him back, allowing him in to explore and ravish. He tasted of whiskey and sin, a lethal combination that threatened to incinerate me from the inside out. Our fevered kisses turned into a duel, a fight to devour each other—intoxicated and frenzied.
It didn’t make sense. Nothing about us made any sense. But with the buzz of alcohol in my veins and the crackle of electricity around us, it made it impossible to make a single rational decision.
Elijah reached between us, clutching the fabric of my pantsuit between his fingers before tearing it straight down the front, shoving it back, my breasts open and aching to be touched. There wasn’t a part of my body that didn’t hum with a need stemming from deep inside my core—ready to be consumed. My skin burned with a need to be touched by him, every muscle aching for more.
He straightened, watching me as he palmed both my breasts. I moaned, and he squeezed harder. “Tell me, Charlotte. Have you been with a man before?”
“I don’t see why that matters,” I panted.
“It matters because that will be the deciding factor here.”
“Deciding factor for what?”
Our gazes latched, his eyes hooded with dark intent. “Whether I’m going to fuck you or not.”
My sex throbbed, my body wound up tight with a band of desire that demanded release. He affected me so easily, without even fucking trying. It was like my body already knew him, wanting him no matter what.
He stepped closer, slipping his hard thigh between my legs, pressing it against my highly sensitive flesh, and I had to stop myself from moving my hips with the overwhelming need to ride his thigh until my body snapped in half with the pleasure it craved.
“Elijah.”
He wrapped both arms around me, winding us tightly together, pushing his hard body against mine, forcing his thigh deeper between my leg, providing the friction I needed.
“Well, have you?” He demanded an answer, and I craned my neck, leaning my head back, moving my hips lightly in an attempt to find the tiniest bit of relief from the pressure.
“I’m not a virgin, if that’s what you’re asking.”
I trembled as his lips brushed down my naked throat. “That leads me to my next question, then.” His hands slid down to my ass, cupping and pulling as if close just wasn’t close enough. “Who do I have to kill?
He thrust against me, and I moaned with parted lips. There was so much heat, so many unwanted desires that swirled inside me like a whirlpool about to suck me in and drown me.
“The thought of another man being inside you drives me to the edge of madness. I can’t let him live, allow him to walk this Earth after he’s tasted what’s mine.”
“I wasn’t yours then,” I countered.
“Don’t fool yourself, Charlotte. You’ve always been mine, even when you didn’t know it yourself.” He yanked me up and forced my legs around his waist, carrying me down the hall. With every step, desire grew more potent, and I couldn’t stop myself from latching on to him, kissing him, my tongue dueling with his as we greedily tried to ravish one another.
My feet hit the floor as he slammed the bedroom door shut behind us, but his mouth never once left mine—our lips refusing to part, drugged with a taste of ecstasy.
It was foolishness. Reckless. And my rational side begged me to be strong enough to fight it. To fight him. But his touch, his kiss, how his presence owned me every time he came close—it had me hypnotized and bound, unable to stop falling into the darkness with him.
He inched back, tearing his lips from mine, leaving me panting as he wrapped an arm around my waist, twisting me around before yanking me closer, my back flush against his chest. He rolled his hips, allowing me to feel his hard cock against the hollow of my back. “I’m a lot of things, Charlotte. Gentle isn’t one of them.”
I brought a hand up to my neck, reminded of what it felt like to have his fingers tighten around my throat. “Will you hurt me again?”
His lips brushed along my naked shoulder, his fingers sliding the torn pantsuit down until it pooled around my feet in a tattered mess. “If by hurt you mean fucked raw until my name is engraved on every bone in your body, then yes.” His hands trickled down my naked arms, my body trembling against his. “You have no idea what kind of torture it was for me watching you from the shadows, desiring you, wondering if you’d still smell like delicate jasmine the morning after I came inside that sweet cunt of yours.” He nipped at my earlobe, earning a soft moan from my lips. “But I wasn’t allowed to touch, to taste, to sample you…my beautiful little cellist.” His hand dipped down, slipping between my thighs. “Every day was a constant war, knowing what needed to be done but wanting to do something different.”
“What did you want to do?” I whispered, sounding out of breath as I panted.
“This.” He dragged a finger through my slit, and I moaned, my eyes closing. “And this.” He dipped low, slipping a finger inside me so easily as my body welcomed the intrusion. “I want to hear your moan when you feel my cock inside you for the first time, see how your lips form the perfect fucking O when your pleasure crests around my dick, your walls milking me for every last ounce of pleasure.”
His lips brushed along the naked skin of my shoulder, peppering kisses across my flesh until he reached my ear. “Get on the bed, Charlotte. On your back, and spread those legs for me.”
“We can’t do this, Elijah.” A sliver of inhibition cracked through the haze.
“Do you want to do this?” His other hand snaked around my side, palm cupping my breast as he rolled my nipples between his expert fingers, sending a shockwave down my body—his touch electrifying me. I relished his touch, yet hated how my thighs clenched—hated how easily I succumbed.
“I asked you a question. And do not play games with me right now. If you do not answer me, I will take it as a yes and be inside you before you have a chance to stop me.”
“I wouldn’t be able to stop you even if I tried.”
I felt him smile against the skin at the nape of my neck. “You’re a fast learner.”
“Apparently, I’m also a masochist.”
“Why?” His finger slipped from inside me, tracing along my wet folds. “Simply because you desire to be fucked by me? Used?” Abruptly, his finger and hands were gone as he turned me around, inching forward while forcing me back, unbuttoning his shirt. “Because you want my name to be a prayer on your lips while you come with my face between your legs?”
He pulled off his shirt, and even if I wanted to I wouldn’t have been able to tear my gaze away from his naked chest. Hard, defined, his muscles roped across his abdomen. But it wasn’t the ripped features of his bare chest that had me intrigued. It was the tattoo just above the waistline of his pants that caught my attention. An image of an opium poppy flower, blood dripping from its petals. After hearing his story, I knew what it symbolized, and it was beautiful in its sadness.
I touched his skin over the flower, my gaze following the movement of my finger as I traced upward along the several intricate music notes that stretched from the poppy petals all the way up his side. “There’s so many of them.”
He grabbed my hand, and I glanced up at him, his irises dark. “Each note represents a target.”
My heart stopped. “You mean…this,” I looked down, “these are how many people you’ve killed?” I started to count but decided against it, diverting my eyes up to him, finding my answer right there in the way he stared at me. There was no compassion. No regret. No humanity. It was clear that not one of his victims was anything more than a job, a contract. They were nothing to him. What was I? I didn’t dare ask, afraid the answer might shatter the glass that kept the world out while we got drunk on one another in this moment.
Maybe I was sick. Insane. Why else would I care more about the desire that currently rippled in waves between us, than the fact that the man in front of me was a coldhearted killer? A man who had the blood of others on his hands?
He touched my chin, forcing me to look up at him. “Are you afraid of me now?”
This time there was no doubt in my mind what my answer was. I started with his belt, my fingers easing across the leather as I unbuckled it. “No,” I answered simply, unzipping his pants.
Tomorrow I could hate myself for what I was about to do. There would be more than enough time for me to regret this moment and wallow in a pit of humiliation because of my actions, and the choices I was making right now.
But tonight, I wanted to be free of all inhibitions. I wanted to taste sin on my lips, feel depravity coat my skin while wickedness exploded inside my core.
I wanted Elijah.
I wanted…The Musician.
