The Villain Duet by Bella J.

Chapter 8

Charlotte

The water was hot, probably too hot. But I didn’t care. I felt it burn my skin, but it didn’t hurt. I was numb, my mind scattered and empty as water cascaded down my back. There was no telling how long I’d been in the shower. Time no longer mattered. It was ironic how time lost its hold on a person once you no longer had things to do or places to go.

I took the bar of soap, smelling the vanilla scent. A part of me didn’t want to use it, didn’t want its smell to linger on my skin, because he chose it.

Elijah.

Elijah who? Who was this man who claimed to know me better than anyone else? This man who managed to watch me for so long without me even knowing. God, that thought was terrifying, thinking of someone lurking in the corners, watching your every move. The magnitude of the invasion of privacy on that level was almost unfathomable, and it made my stomach turn. All the memories of my everyday life—was he a part of it? He made it clear he was there the days I worked at the Alto, but what about at the bar where I worked nights when the theatre was closed? Was he there? Was his face among the rest of the crowd? Had I served him, handed him a beer, poured him shots? Did he tip me, after which I’d politely thank him?

Jesus. Once you started going down, it was an endless rabbit hole, dissecting everything from something as mundane as going to the grocery store to something as personal and private like going on a date. Was Elijah always fucking there?

The soap slipped from my hand, and I didn’t bother to pick it up. I didn’t want to use his fucking vanilla-scented soap, anyway.

I stepped out of the shower, the entire bathroom steamed up. I wiped the mirror, forming a clear streak so I could see part of my reflection. How many times had he watched me undress? How many times had he seen me naked with the type of confidence that only came when you were alone?

There were just too many questions—questions for which the answers would just branch out to more questions.

When he touched me earlier, the way he moved his hand over the curve of my hip and up my side. It was like he already knew the way, like my body was a map he had already memorized. And when he cupped my breast, kneading, touching, something inside me broke. I was sure of it, because what I felt couldn’t have been normal. My fear collided with fire, causing a hurricane of malignant desire I instantly despised. Surely, something, somewhere inside me had to be broken. No normal human being would find anything alluring about a kidnapper, an abductor who choked his victims and snatched them out of society in such a twisted, vicious way. Not even if he looked like Elijah, like God Himself had carved him from the night sky and adorned him with mysterious allure coated in goddamn perfection.

Maybe it didn’t have anything to do with him at all, and it was just this twisted part of myself I never knew about.

Maybe he knew. The way he stared at me, waiting, watching—something he was so fucking good at—as if he wanted to witness when the realization set in that there was a part of myself I had never known. Why else would my body react with equal parts heat and disgust—liking and despising his touch at the same time?

But that didn’t matter right now. What mattered was that this bone-deep fear I felt, this horrifying uncertainty that filled my insides, I had to fight it. If I wanted to survive whatever the fuck this was, I needed to get my head straight. My mom used to say that one should never fear the unknown, because nothing was more important than conquering the now.

The present.

Live it. Conquer it. Survive it.

Twice I had asked him, begged him to let me go, and he made it clear that it wasn’t an option.

“I won’t beg again,” I whispered to myself as if the woman who stared back at me in the mirror was a complete stranger. Someone I hardly knew. “Not again.” But I would fight him every step of the way, prove to him that I was more than just prey.

I wrapped one of the white towels around me and paused by the door, wondering if he would be in there. I hesitated, the idea of him seeing me in nothing but a towel sending a chill down my back. But then again, he had probably already seen much more of me while I was blissfully unaware.

Steam escaped the bathroom as I opened the door and stepped into the bedroom. My shoulders relaxed when I saw he wasn’t there, yet the three La Boutique bags on the bed proved he had been.

The ceiling lights had been dimmed. The warm yet subtle lighting touched the gray, cool tones of the room, creating a calming atmosphere, especially with nothing covering the windows. The New York skyline was majestic, mesmerizing, creating the illusion of power for whoever stared out across it. The tall buildings, thousands of lights—if wealth had a picture, it would be this.

The bedroom was three times the size of my entire apartment. If this were under any other circumstance, I’d probably be ecstatic, sipping champagne while soaking in the giant spa-bathtub in the bathroom. It was just my fucking luck that the one time I got the chance to experience such luxury was by force and kidnapping.

Fuck you, Murphy.

I let out a sigh and took each bag, one by one, throwing the clothing in one big heap on the bed.

Jeans. Shirts. Blouses. It took me half a glance to know I hated all of it simply because he bought it. It would have been clothing made of gold and silver, I’d still fucking hate it.

I laced a finger through a silk strap, lifting the short, white nightdress. There was barely enough fabric to cover everything that needed to be, well…covered. And not just one. Three. Three goddamn nightgowns, all in white, but different styles.

I tossed all of it to the side and scoffed. He was sorely mistaken if he thought I’d wear those. This was a kidnapping, not a fucking honeymoon.

One powder-blue blouse seemed longer than the others, so I put it on and buttoned it up before slipping a pair of white panties up underneath.

“That color suits you.”

“Jesus Christ!” I yelped and jumped to the other side of the bed, almost choking on a breath. “Elijah.” He was standing in the farthest corner—the one part of the room the lights didn’t touch. “How long have you been there?” My pulse raced.

“Long enough to see that the white nightgowns clearly don’t appeal to you.”

“You really are a fucking psychopath, you know that?”

He shrugged. “I won’t argue that.”

“What do you want?”

With a single step, he moved out of the shadow into the light, and for a moment I looked at a man. Not a kidnapper or a stalker. But a man soaked in magnetism, making it impossible to look away. This fleeting thought sneaked into my mind, making me wonder why a man like him would be interested in a woman like me. Being a coldhearted kidnapper aside, he was beautiful. Attractive. The epitome of perfection that allowed him the luxury of having his pick of women. Yet I was the woman he dedicated years of his life to.

Watching me. Studying me.

A borderline obsession.

Why me?

He stepped between me and the bed, and I glanced at the clothes. Fuck. If I wanted to grab some pants, I’d have to get past him. Sly bastard.

He placed his hands in his black pants pockets. “I want you to play for me.”

“What? The cello?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t play when someone’s watching me.”

He smirked. “Yet you’ve played with me watching you for years.”

“I didn’t know. Stalker, remember?”

“Observer,” he countered, his gaze burning into mine. “What is it about playing in front of people that scares you?”

I bit my lip and looked down. “I don’t know.”

“Are you afraid people will judge you, criticize your talent?”

“That’s part of it.”

“What’s the other part?”

“I’m not sure if this is an appropriate conversation to have with my kidnapper,” I glanced down at my legs, “especially not when I’m half naked.”

He arched a brow. “You’re wearing a blouse.”

“I consider that being half naked.”

His eyes narrowed, and he rubbed the stubble beard on his chin—the action drawing my attention to his muscular, veiny hand. Judging by how perfect it was, flawless yet muscular, he wasn’t in the profession that required any type of hard labor. I was momentarily reminded of how it felt to have his hand on my breast, igniting that unwelcome blend of fear and fire.

“I’ll make you a deal.” He tossed the heap of clothing around and pulled out a full-length nightgown, easing the silk fabric through his fingers—a simple movement, yet somehow he made it seem…sensual. “I’ll give you this if you tell me the other part.”

I cleared my throat, glaring at him, hoping he’d see in my eyes just how much of a bastard I thought he was. “Why do you want to know?”

“Tell me.”

“First tell me why you want to know.”

“Are you sure you’re in a position to negotiate with your kidnapper?”

I squared my shoulders. “What do I have to lose?”

An amused grin curved at the corners of his mouth, and he took a single step toward me, instantly robbing me of air. “How about because you’re half naked and I’m fucking dying to feel you up again?” His hot gaze dropped to my breasts and back up, his liquid cognac eyes swirling with a thousand immoral intentions, as if he hoped I’d give him a reason to do it. That I’d challenge him. What scared me the most was how it spoke to that dark part inside me, the part that stirred to life when he touched me.

I licked my lips. “It’s personal.”

“What is?” His voice dipped low with a sultry tenor.

“Playing.” I swallowed. “It’s personal to me.”

“Why?”

“Jesus,” I yelled. “It’s the way it affects me, okay? How it allows me to escape. It’s not something I want to share with anyone.”

“Why not?” He shifted closer, taking up more air with his musky scent. “Why don’t you want to share it?”

“Because when I play, I’m at my most vulnerable, and I don’t want to share that part of myself with anyone.”

“So, what you’re saying is,” he took one more step, and I had to crane my neck to look him in the eye as he stared down at me like a mountain of menace, “you shared your most vulnerable self with…me.” The low, seductive thrum in his voice trickled across the naked flesh of my throat, and I swallowed hard, hyperaware of how he dominated the space around us.

“I didn’t share it with you.” I lifted my chin in a desperate attempt to show defiance. “You took it.”

“I’m known to take what I want.”

“So, you’re not just a stalker and a psychopath, you’re a thief too.”

His top lip curled in a sinful smirk. “I’m sure during our time together you’ll realize I’m a lot of other things as well.”

There was no telling whether it was meant to be a threat or not. If I needed to fear those other things. It would probably be safer if I did—to expect the worst.

“Here.” He handed me the nightgown. “I might be a lot of things, but I am a man of my word. A deal is a deal.”

Hesitant, I took the silk garment from him, yet there was no haste to put it on. Somehow, I had forgotten about the fact that I was half-naked, too entranced by the presence of my captor.

He glanced at the cello, and I expected him to press the matter—to force me to play for him like he did after he brought me here. But he didn’t. Instead, he turned and headed toward the door.

“Do you play?” The words slipped mindlessly out of my mouth, and I caught myself stepping closer.

He stilled, his shoulders broad, tips of his hair touching the back of his collar. Without turning, he answered, “I don’t. But I do share your appreciation for music.”

Nervously, I twirled my fingers together. “Why me? Why spend all that time,” I swallowed, “observing me?”

He glanced halfway over his shoulder, his jaw square and strong. For a second, I was sure he’d answer, but he merely let out a breath and walked out, his exit followed by the click of the lock. A cold, harrowing reminder that I was a prisoner…and nothing more.