Breaking Bella by Jenna Rose
Bella
I wakeup with my head aching, and the Devil of Miami looking down at me.
His eyes are narrow, probing. There’s implied ownership there—like I’m his pet. His plaything. When he sees that I’m awake, he smiles.
“Well, Bella, that was unexpected. I spoil you rotten with a whole new wardrobe and offer you breakfast and you try to run away from me and hurt yourself in the process? I knew your issues of self-worth ran deep, but I underestimated just how deep. I will have to up my efforts.”
Up his efforts?
“Wh-what are you talking about?” I ask, sitting up. I realize I’m in bed. His bed, in the most luxurious bedroom I’ve ever seen. It puts the one I was staying in to shame. “Your efforts? What do you want from me, Brax? I don’t understand. You got what you wanted…”
“No,” he says firmly. “No, I didn’t, Bella. I want you to understand your value. What you are worth.”
“I’m not…worth anything…” I mutter.
“You see?” he says. “That is the mentality I am going to fix, Bella. But I need you to promise me that you won’t try to do what you did today again. I don’t want you hurting yourself again, understand?”
I try to search his face for a glimpse of insight into his motives. This is the Devil of Miami—not a therapist or a man running a woman’s shelter. Whatever he’s doing, it’s not for me. He has a secondary motive. But what could it be? He’s already had sex with me. He took my virginity. What possible motive could he have for showering me with gifts, for “spoiling” me? It makes no sense.
But when I look at him, I see no hints of deception. All I see are the eyes of an honest man. And that terrifies me more than anything else about him.
And on top of it all, it makes me want to know more. Want to know why.
“Fine.” I shrug. “I won’t run.”
He smiles. “Good. Now you’ve been out for a while. Breakfast is over. Will you join me for lunch?”
“You sure you don’t want to dine with one of your other girlfriends?” I ask. “I’m sure you’ve got quite the harem.”
Brax narrows his eyes at me, causing my body to tighten.
“You’re sure, are you? What would make you say that, Bella?”
I shrug, feeling suddenly embarrassed. “I don’t know—”
“That’s right, you don’t know. And I’d suggest keeping comments like that to yourself from now on. Now, please go to your room and dress for lunch. I can accompany you to make sure you do not run, or I can wait for you downstairs.”
“I won’t run,” I tell him as I get out of bed. “I promise. My head’s already hurting, and I don’t feel like being tackled by your goons.”
Brax actually chuckles at this, takes my hand, and leads me from the room like I’m some kind of princess. I’m amazed at how much of a gentleman he is. Everyone in Miami has heard the stories of his brutality—how he became the kingpin of the criminal underworld here. But the way he holds my hand so tenderly in his…
I could almost mistake him for a gentleman.
He leads me to my room, and when he lets me go, I feel a strange sense of loss in my chest. God, am I feeling something for him?
“Don’t be long, Bella,” he all but whispers in a tone that sends shivers up my spine and goosebumps all over my body.
I’m not sure why, but for whatever reason, Brax, the Devil of Miami, has chosen me to be his…girlfriend? For the foreseeable future. And while the thought of that has me freaking the heck out inside, it also has me feeling something I can’t ever remember feeling.
Special.
A man this strong, this powerful, with all this wealth, who could have any woman he wanted, chose me to bring to his home, to spoil and spend time with.
“But why!?”
The confusion alone has me on the verge of tears.
And then the things he said about wanting me to learn to value myself…see that I’m worth something. That he wants to fix me. Why is he doing any of this? How could he…how could he even know that there was ever anything to fix?
I don’t even know where to begin with the clothes hanging in the walk-in, so I pick the most demure black dress I can find and match it with a pair of black flats, not heels, and leave the jewelry in its box. I’ve never even seen a real diamond, except for my mom’s modest engagement ring; I’m not about to Beyonce myself out for a simple lunch.
I make my way downstairs, feeling like a peacock, and find the dining room easily enough where Brax is already seated at the table waiting for me. I’m not dreaming—his eyes actually light up when I walk through the door.
“Well, aren’t you wearing the hell out of that dress?” he remarks as I quickly take a seat to avoid putting on an inadvertent fashion show.
Stop blushing. Avoid eye contact.
“I…er…what are we having?”
“Whatever you’d like,” he replies. “I’m having a BLT, but the chef can make you whatever—”
“I’ll just have one of those,” I say quickly. This is already awkward enough. I don’t need to make him think I’m a total weirdo with my sandwich choice.
“You sure? Like I said, he can make you anything. He’s Michelin starred.”
“BLT is fine.”
“Okay.” I can hear the amusement in his voice. I’m just some silly girl to him, aren’t I? Why am I even here? He’ll come to his senses before dinner and kick me out. I’m sure of it.
Brax looks to his right and nods to a man I didn’t even notice is standing beyond a door to the back kitchen. He disappears without a word, leaving us alone. I try to think of something to say—anything to break the terrible silence that is holding me taut like a guitar string ready to snap, but nothing comes to mind.
Nothing that isn’t incredibly stupid, at least. But what comes out of Brax’s mouth next almost levels me.
“So you’re an artist?”
“I—what?” I stammer, trying to collect myself. “No, I would never call myself an artist, but how—how did you know that?”
My heart sinks as he produces my sketchbook.
Out of everything I own, my sketchbook is my most personal possession, and seeing it in his hands excites a panic in me that causes me to shoot out of my seat. I lunge across the table at him and snatch it out of his hands and fall back, clutching it against my chest.
This shouldn’t be here. It should be at home. Safe.
“I had my men go to your apartment and bring your things over,” he says. “So you’d feel more at home for the duration of your stay here.”
“You had no right!” I exclaim. This only seems to amuse him.
“Your work should be in a gallery, Bella. You are very talented.”
“Stop,” I mutter, hiding my eyes from him. “My art is for me. Not the world. Besides, it’s not that good. It’s just…sketches.”
The chef appears and sets two plates on the table, one before each of us. A BLT and chips. Simple, yet somehow luxurious.
“Bon appetit,” he says before disappearing again into the kitchen.
Carefully, I slip my sketchbook under my thigh before taking a bite of my sandwich, admittedly the best sandwich I’ve ever had, but of course I don’t let that read on my face. I don’t say anything to Brax either.
I feel violated. The way he took me without my permission doesn’t even compare to this. My art is the most personal, private and sacred piece of me, and he went ahead and took it like it belonged to him.
There’s a piece of me —a tiny piece of me that’s glowing at the fact that he liked my work, but that doesn’t excuse his behavior.
“You look like you want to say something, Bella.” I glare up at him as I chew but simply shake my head. “No? You don’t want to chew me out?”
I swallow hard. “Chew you out? What good would that do? You obviously don’t respect me enough to—”
“Ah, but I do respect you, Bella. More than Josh. More than whatever other men you’ve gone out with in the past. And that’s why I’m going to sponsor a show for you.”
I almost choke on the bite I just took and quickly gulp down half my glass of orange juice to keep myself from dying.
“You’re what!?”
He’s joking. This has to be just another step in his master plan of screwing with my head. There’s no way he’s telling me the truth right now.
“I’ll sponsor a show for you at one of the galleries I own.” But when he replies, he sounds sincere. In fact, he sounds almost…passionate about what he’s saying.
Is he crazy?
“You own an art gallery?”
“Several, actually.” He smiles. “To launder money mostly. I’ve never paid them any mind really. But now I have a reason to, Bella.”
“I—I can’t, Brax.”
“Why not?” he asks.
“I just…”
“You don’t think your work is good enough?” he asks it as a question, but just barely. It’s more like a statement that I really can’t argue with. Of course my art isn’t good enough to hang in a gallery. It’s just immature scribblings that I do when I’m feeling down and have emotions I can’t express any other way.
“It’s not even work, Brax,” I reply, feeling completely off-balance. “It’s just…it’s just me messing around.”
“It’s more than that, Bella, and that’s what I’m going to help you understand.”
“Brax, no—”
“Bella, yes.” He grins. “I am going to sponsor a show for you, and you are going to display your work. Because it is good. Because you are worthy. And I am not taking no for an answer.”
My heart thuds against my ribs as my blood pressure skyrockets.
I could keep arguing, but what would be the point? This is the Devil of Miami, and what the devil wants, the devil gets.
