The Villain Duet by Bella J.

Chapter 4

Charlotte

My eyes shot open, and I reached for my throat, remembering how fear sucked the air out of my lungs as he wrapped his hands around my neck. I tried to fight. Clawed at his hands, his arms, his face—anywhere so that he would let go so I could breathe. But he tightened his grip, fingers biting into my flesh, my lungs burning as he slowly suffocated me. I remembered wondering if this was how I would die—gasping for breath while staring the devil in the eye, trying to speak and beg for him to stop. But everything went dark, reality sucked away from my mind, my thoughts silent…until now.

I sat up and grabbed the unfamiliar sheets with my fists, scanning the room. Gray walls, white ceiling with dimmed lights, dark laminated floors, and large floor-to-ceiling windows that showcased the night lights of a city. New York City? God, I hoped I was still in New York.

I jumped off the bed and looked around, the furniture all sleek and modern, clearly decorated according to a minimalist's taste. I frantically searched through every drawer and cupboard, trying to find something I could use to protect myself. But everything was empty, as if no one had lived there.

The room sure didn’t paint a picture of a dungeon, and neither did the white silks sheets I woke up on. But it was when I tried to turn the doorknob only to find it locked that I realized this was just a well-decorated prison cell.

The idea of breaking a window and jumping did cross my mind, until I walked over to the clear glass and saw how high up I was, my hopes of escaping that way diminished. At least the closer view confirmed I was still in New York since I recognized the iconic skyline.

The last thing I remembered was his face. His expression, hard and cold. Like stone. The moment our eyes met, his brown irises darkened with pure resolve. It took me a split second and one breath to realize what he came for.

Me.

Keys rattled by the door, and I leaped to the other side of the room, shoving myself in the corner as my heart simultaneously stopped and got lodged in my throat, causing me to hold my breath. Every horrible thought imaginable had crossed my mind as I stood huddled in the corner, watching the door as if death could come walking through it at any moment.

I pressed my back harder against the wall, trying to make myself smaller as the door slowly opened. Nausea slammed into the pit of my stomach as adrenaline crashed against my spine. I had never experienced fear of this magnitude before. The kind of fear that would make you gladly choose death if it meant escaping the crippling terror.

The moment he walked in, I stopped fucking breathing. The man looked like a powerhouse in a suit. Large frame, broad shoulders. Dark eyes.

Pure. Malice.

His eyes met mine as he closed the door, lines of disapproval forming on his forehead. “What the hell are you doing?”

The back of my neck tingled with the familiar tenor in his guttural voice. Low. Rough.

“Get up, Charlotte. You’re not a fucking animal.”

My name. How did he…

“Charlotte Leigh Moore,” he said as if he could read my mind. His expression remained stone as he walked closer, his white shirt a stark contrast against his olive skin. My gaze dropped to the case he carried. A cello case.

“You’ll find there’s not much I don’t know about you.” He placed the case down on a black couch that stood against the adjacent wall.

His dark gaze pinned me in the corner, and I was too afraid to move. The expression on his face was hard, dark, void of any emotion. There was nothing there, his eyes empty, hollow, cold. The room chilled instantly, and every hair on my arms and neck raised.

“Who are you?” My voice carried a panicked pitch, and I hardly managed a breath.

“That depends.”

“On what?”

He placed his hands in the pockets of his black pants, squaring his shoulders, standing regal and proud. “On who’s asking.”

“I’m asking.”

He lifted a brow, his eyes orbs of cognac and venom. “For now, all you need to know is that I’m God…for you, at least.”

“What do you want with me?”

A smirk curled at the corners of his mouth framed with a dark manicured beard as he glanced from me to the cello. “I want you to play.”

“What?” My voice shook. I sounded weak, and I hated it.

“Play the cello.”

Slowly, cautiously, I pushed myself up and straightened, my palms flat against the wall behind me. “I don’t know what it is you think you want from me, but if you claim to know so much about me, you’ll know I have nothing to offer you.”

He roughed his fingers through his midnight hair, the longer strands at the front fanning over his eyes. “For now, let’s just say all I want is for you to play the cello.”

“What is going—”

“Just play the motherfucking cello!” his voice erupted, slamming against the ceiling and breaking through my chest. I jolted and turned to the side, pushing myself deeper into the corner as if it were possible for the wall to hide me from him, to swallow me whole and take me away. Tears burned my eyes, and my fingers trembled as fear consumed me.

“Please,” I begged, and he launched at me, punching his fists against the wall on either side of my head. My eyes snapped closed, and there was a moment of heated urgency to relieve myself, panic shattering my insides. My veins burned, yet my skin was ice-cold as he brought his face close to mine, letting me feel the warmth of his angered breath against my cheeks. “Play. That’s all I fucking want right now. Okay?”

Tears now freely streamed down my face, my soul weeping with crippling fear. “Okay,” I sobbed. “Okay. I’ll play.”

He stepped back, wiping his palm across his stubble beard, his expression nothing but angered lines and raging madness.

I wiped at my tears, and I could barely walk, my legs threatening to give way beneath me. But my desperation clung to every ounce of strength I had, strength he stole from me simply by being close.

Through the haze of tears, I stared at the cello in the case, unable to appreciate the instrument’s majestic beauty and the familiar scent of rosin. If it were under any other circumstances, I would have gawked at it in awe while longing to feel the strings vibrate beneath my fingers. But this was different. This was life-threatening with the devil standing a few feet away, staring at me as if he wanted nothing more than to drag me down to hell with him.

My hand trembled as I reached out, my chest tightening around my lungs.

I paused. “Why are you—”

“Shut up and play, Charlotte.” There was no negotiating, his demand as sharp a blade held against my throat.

I swallowed and wiped at a tear about to lap off my chin, trying my best to pull myself together. If I could only get through this, play as he demanded me to, maybe then he’d let me go. Just one song, and perhaps he’d let me run.

Gently, I eased the cello from its case, the wood smooth against my palm. It had been weeks since I held a cello, weeks since I played. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss it. That I didn’t lie awake at night imagining my fingers moving up and down the cello’s neck, creating the perfect vibrato as I eased the bow along the strings. But I never would have thought that the next time I’d play would be while held captive.

I glanced at the man who watched me like a hawk from beneath thick, dark lashes—annoyance and agitation rolling off him in waves.

A chair stood at the other end of the room, and I slowly moved toward it, my feet heavy and cold. There was nothing but absolute silence as I sat down, positioning the cello between my legs. The chair was too high, so I reached down to adjust the endpin.

“Jesus Christ, woman.” His words rumbled and cracked the silence. “Just fucking—”

“Play. Yes, I know. I’m trying,” I snapped back. “I’m trying, okay?”

“Try harder.”

I closed my eyes and took the bow between my fingers, trying to imagine I was anywhere but here. Trying to transport myself to a place where peace would set the music free.

The bow touched the strings, but I held my wrist all wrong, causing the most godawful sound. Everything was just wrong. My posture. The height of the stool. Even the cello felt wrong as I let it lean against me.

I took another deep breath and tried again, but the more I tried, the worse it sounded until I pulled the cello away and slumped my posture. “I can’t. I can’t play, okay?” Tears slipped free. “I’m sorry. I can’t do it.”

His nostrils flared. “You’re not even trying.”

“I am. I’m trying.”

“Bullshit.”

I launched up to my feet in a moment of angered insanity. “Don’t you think I’d play if I could? I’m scared as fuck right now, fearing for my life because I have no idea what you’re going to do to me. And right now, you’re staring at me like you want nothing more than to tear my goddamn throat out. So, of course, I’m fucking trying.”

As the last word poured from my lips, I regretted it immediately. He didn’t look like the kind of man who would tolerate such outbursts, and I was sure there’d be repercussions. Punishment. Pain.

My body shuddered as I stood before him, his presence alone robbing me of air, making it hard to take a breath. Seconds ticked by, and he didn’t say a word. He didn’t even move. He just stared at me with a coldness that penetrated my bones—like an infection that has the means to make me rot from the inside out. The uncertainty of what he’d do next was worse than the fear of anticipating retaliation. By simply glaring at me in silence, he had me wishing I could take it all back and play him the perfect composition.

“I didn’t mean—” I started, my voice nothing but a shaky whisper. “I didn’t—”

He stormed out, his heavy footsteps as angry as the rage in his eyes. The door slammed shut, and I sucked in a breath as I closed my eyes, my pulse racing with heated adrenaline and overwhelming fear.

The weight of it all came crashing down, and I collapsed, a weakened version of myself sobbing on the wooden floors. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. Why did it feel like my life would never be the same again? As if it all had now come to an end. Here. With him.

Whoever he was.