The Villain’s Captive by Bella J.

7

Roasted chickenwith asiago polenta and truffled mushrooms. That was what I wanted to make for dinner, because ever since her mother died, Charlotte lived off cereal, simple fruit, and instant microwavable meals.

When was the last time she had a decent meal? A homemade meal that tasted like food and not cardboard? Apart from the life that I lived outside this apartment, cooking was my passion. To me, there was so much more to food than just filling your belly. It was about experiencing the bursting of flavors on your tongue, tasting the quality ingredients and savoring every bite.

Part of me knew my love for food probably stemmed from a childhood of going to bed on an empty stomach daily.

I was busy chopping thyme when I glanced at the skinned chicken breasts. Charlotte wasn’t the type of woman to be impressed by fancy dining and elegant dinners. I was doing this more for myself than for her, thinking feeding her quality food would somehow be the first brick laid on my path to redemption.

Good God. Redemption for a man like me wasn’t fucking possible, so I was just wasting my goddamn time, hence the reason I tossed it all in the garbage.

I waited by the foyer when the elevator opened, Josh appearing with a pizza box in hand.

“You ordered a pizza?” Disbelief clung to his arched ginger brow. Understandably.

Being the head of security, and the only fucking person I trusted in this city, Josh knew my opinion on pizza. And it was simple…

Pizza is not food.

At least, not the takeout kind.

I took the box from him. “It’s not for me.”

“Then who—”

“None of your goddamn business. Listen,” I wiped at my chin, “did you do everything I asked you to?”

“Everything is arranged.”

“Did you double security?”

“Yes, sir. And I have three unmarked black vehicles standing by and ready to leave at any moment.”

“Good.” I turned my back on him, a silent dismissal. In my profession, it would be reckless and stupid not to have the best security measures in place. Finding the cracks in any type of protection detail was easy for a man like me.

The smell of garlic and oregano filled my nostrils, the box still warm from the freshly made pizza. I never quite understood the love people had for what was nothing more than a sphere of dough with a fuckton of melted cheese. And all those different toppings? How were you supposed to taste anything when there were so many different flavors all mashed up together?

I unlocked the bedroom door and walked in, finding Charlotte standing by the window, staring out. Raven strands of braided hair cascaded down her back, but so many of her wild curls had already escaped, falling in disarray around her shoulders. All this was part of a well-thought-out plan which had been in the making for years, an inevitable contract—but I was still a man who knew when to appreciate an innocent beauty that wasn’t forced or flaunted.

The black denims she wore were torn at the seams around her ankles, the faded color giving away its age. In all this time I’d watched her, it was clear that Charlotte chose comfort above fashion. That, or maybe it was just the fact that she couldn’t afford anything other than a few pairs of jeans and hoodies. But my guess was, even if she could afford designer labels, she’d still opt for the comfort of the no-name brands.

“Dinner,” I stated, and she glanced over her shoulder.

“You probably won’t be surprised if I say I’m not hungry.”

I placed the cardboard box down on the side table set next to the leather couch. “You have to eat.”

“You know,” she turned to face me with her arms crossed, “there’s something about being kidnapped that kills one’s appetite.”

Her sarcastic tone earned an unamused glare from me. “Sarcasm is a cheap way to hide unintelligence.”

“Kidnapping is a sure sign of mental instability.”

“Then I guess we both have our…weaknesses. You know,” I gestured toward the pizza, “the human body can only feed off adrenaline for so long. Sooner or later, your body will need more than mere determination and stubbornness to survive. And who knows,” I sat down on the couch, “maybe I won’t feel like feeding you then.”

The way she bit her bottom lip, her silence stretching for miles, was a sure sign that she knew I had won this round. Before too long, she’d realize there was no negotiating, bargaining, or sparring with me.

“Besides,” I lightened the conversation with half a grin, “I got your favorite. Pepperoni with extra garlic.”

Her lips parted, and eyes widened. “Exactly how long have you been stalking me?”

“Observing.”

“Stalking. Normal people who aren’t psychopaths call it stalking.”

I laced my fingers together, contemplating for a moment whether I wanted to go down this path and partake in the conversation she was pursuing. Would it be wise to humor her need for answers, her need to make sense of what was happening? Her entire life was about secrets, about hiding the truth. What would the risks be if I decided to lay it all out on the table right now, catapult her life into deadly chaos?

“How long?” She pressed for an answer, but this time there was a slight tremor in her voice.

“A while,” I stated firmly, not entirely giving her the answer she wanted.

“You stalked me for…a while?”

“Eat, Charlotte.”

She tightened her arms around herself, a blatant show of defiance. But I had seen enough fear in my life to recognize it hiding behind pointed glares and brave faces.

I studied her as she looked down at her bare feet, placing one foot on top of the other. There was a certain allure in her vulnerability, a level of seduction in the way she unknowingly stirred to life this involuntary curiosity about her, to get to know her.

To own her.

I rubbed my fingers across my beard, studying her slender form, the gentle curve of her hips, the oversized T-shirt she wore hiding the swells of her breasts—and for a single fucking moment I imagined what her body would look like naked. Aroused. Entirely at my mercy.

My cock hardened, my skin set alight with anticipation. Anticipation of what? Fucking the woman you kidnapped?

I shifted in my seat. “Eat.”

“No.” Her fiery gaze met mine.

“Then at least take a fucking shower.” There was no hiding the level of my annoyance, the frustration I felt over the hard-on I had developed for the cellist. After years of watching her, observing her, studying her, it was natural to assume I’d form some sort of familiarity toward her. God knew there was that unexplainable addiction toward her musical talent and that old fucking cello of hers, which was now broken, left to be forgotten.

“I don’t have clean clothes.” Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, the movement drawing my attention to the marks my cruel hands had left around her neck. It stirred a bitter taste on my tongue. I wasn’t in the business of hurting women—except one, a long fucking time ago. But I had no choice, ignoring the one fucking moral I did have in life, and I hurt her. It could so easily have gone wrong. Just a few seconds longer, pressing down on her windpipe slightly harder, and she’d be dead.

That thought didn’t sit well with me.

I stood and plucked the phone from my pocket, speed dialing Josh’s number as I advanced toward her, her eyes regarding me like one would watch a starved animal. “I need you to phone La Boutique, ask for Marianne, and let her put together a few items of woman’s clothing. Jeans, shirts, blouses.” I stilled mere inches from her. “Five-foot-four. Just over a hundred pounds.” I licked my lips as I looked at hers, her top lip adorned with a perfect goddamn cupid’s bow. “Dresses too.” My hand touched her waist, the sound of a gentle gasp leaving her lips making my dick swell. “And underwear. Lingerie.”

Her cheeks instantly flushed, and my motherfucking cock liked that look on her.

The blue in her eyes glistened, and the predator in me allowed my fingertips to continue up her waist, dragging the shirt and exposing her belly, her ivory skin lacking the fake tan most women loved to flaunt. Beautiful, flawless and delicate—like white rose petals illuminated with innocence.

I watched her, kept her gaze captive, anticipating any kind of reaction from her. But she remained unmoved. Silent. I wasn’t even sure she was breathing.

“Preferably white,” I said into the receiver while I touched her side, the need to push boundaries pulsing in my veins. My finger drew leisurely circles across her naked flesh, the shirt bundled up and creased before my hand slid underneath.

Her eyes snapped shut, and my hand closed around her breast, feeling its weight in my palm. “B-cup,” I murmured, and those lush, rosy-pink lips of hers parted.

I squeezed, loving how her tit fit so fucking perfectly in my hand, my cock rock goddamn hard and twitching in response. How easy it would be for me to continue, to give my dick what it wanted. To cross the fucking line.

A single tear slipped down her cheek, her eyes still closed, lapping over a now trembling bottom lip.

“And, Josh, pay cash. Do not mention my name.”

I hung up, and she finally opened her eyes—slowly, cautiously, as if she feared what she would see.

“Elijah,” she whispered, and I could swear to God the sound of my name on her lips was the start of my fucking undoing. “I’m scared.” Her shoulders shuddered. “You scare me. Please…don’t do this.” Tears made the blue in her eyes shimmer. Like diamonds. Crystals of unhappiness. Not even her fear, her sorrow, her pain could extinguish the desire that now burned like the motherfucking sun in my groin. A tear dripped from her chin, and I lifted my hand in time to catch it, my skin soaking up the wetness. There was something sensual about it—erotic, even—how I could catch her sorrow and let it soak through my skin.

I cupped her cheek, lowering my lips closer to hers. “Would you believe me if I said I’m not the one you should fear?”

“No,” she answered with no hesitation, and I closed my eyes.

“Good.” I touched her bottom lip with my thumb, almost able to taste her. “Because that would be pretty fucking stupid of you if you did.”

My pulse raced, and lust simmered. The thought of how easy it would be to pin her on that bed, tear off her cheap fucking clothes, and bury myself balls deep inside her fucked with my head. I wanted it. I wanted it to so fucking bad, the entire shitstorm that surrounded us seemed like goddamn smoke during a thunderstorm. In-fucking-significant.

But this wasn’t a line I could cross with her because she was just too goddamn important—the most consequential element of a hefty debt I vowed to pay.

I took a step back. “Go shower, Charlotte. Your new clothes will be here within the hour. And then I suggest you try to get some sleep.”

It was easy to see the relief on her beautiful face when I put more distance between us.

Her eyes locked with mine. “How am I supposed to sleep?”

“Sing yourself a motherfucking lullaby.”

There was no way I could stay so close to her for one second longer without doing something that would hurt her—something I’d enjoy way too fucking much.

I stormed out, and the door slammed shut. It felt like I had the fury of hell hammering against my skull. So many fucking voices, racing thoughts pulling me in every goddamn direction. There was no margin for error here, no fucking time for blurred lines and shit that had the potential to complicate something that could not, and would not, be anything more than a job—a debt fulfillment.

Lusting after Charlotte Moore had the potential to fuck up everything I had been planning for the last few years. One wrong move, and I’d be utterly, completely, unequivocally…fucked.