7. CHIARA
It’s well into the afternoon when I wake from yesterday’s exhaustion, and while I’m still a little groggy, I feel well-rested and ready for my day. I’ve never woken up feeling so refreshed in my life. Could it be the expensive bed and the fancy Egyptian linen? Or . . . My gaze shifts to the glass of water that was left out for me last night.
No, it couldn’t be. There’s no way he slipped me something again. First in the car and then again in my drink. This is bullshit. How stupid could I be to have fallen for that? I should have known better, but I was so exhausted and confused when I came to bed last night that it didn’t even occur to me not to trust the glass of water that had been left on my bedside table. God, I’m an idiot.
Throwing the blankets back, I trudge out of bed and across the room to my private bathroom before closing and locking the door behind me. Turning to the vanity, I face my disheveled reflection and barely recognize myself. My hair is a mess, there are deep circles under my eyes, and despite only being gone from my home for three or four days, I look as though I’ve lost weight.
The body harness still decorating my skin makes me feel dirty. Wanting to put this bullshit behind me, I grip the thick leather and yank it off my body, loosening it to speed up the process. It’s not easy, and the complicated straps quickly send me into a blind panic. I need to get it off and burn the fucker. I need to be free of what it represents, but I don’t think I’ll ever be free again.
This Romanian jailer is never going to let me go. I’m never going to be blessed with a life of my own. I will be at his beck and call until he decides I have nothing left to offer. When that day comes, all I can hope for is a bullet between my eyes to end this life of misery.
Forcing myself to take slow, calming breaths, I focus on one strap at a time until the leather harness and thong are discarded in a messy heap on the bathroom floor. Finally able to breathe just a little easier, I walk into the oversized shower. I step to the side as I turn on the taps, then hold my hand out under the stream of water, waiting for it to warm.
After scrubbing my hair and washing the filth from my body, I tip my head back under the cascading water and let the soothing warmth wash over me. I have to get used to this. I have to somehow find the beauty in this world. Otherwise, I’m going to live my life in misery, and that’s simply unacceptable. I have to learn to embrace these changes, but it’s going to take time and a shitload of patience—patience I simply don’t have.
Stepping out of the shower, I quickly dry off before wrapping my towel firmly around my body and running a brush through my hair. Glancing down at the filthy harness, I let out a heavy sigh. What the hell am I supposed to wear? There’s no way I’m putting that thing back on. I’d die before sinking that low again. Hell, the second I can, I’ll be burning it to a crisp.
Wandering back out to my room, I step up to my closet and open the door with a gasp. It’s fully stocked with clothes, but how?
Walking deeper into the closet, I scan over the variety of items. Sun dresses, formal dresses, night dresses. There are leggings, jeggings, and jeans. Workout clothes, bras, and underwear. Full briefs right down to tiny G-strings. Every single item of clothing a girl could need for every possible occasion has been catered, and all the tags say they’re in my size. But the biggest question is, when the hell was all this done?
He really did put something in my water. I would have known if someone was delivering a truckload of clothes into my room. It’s not a quick job. They’re all organized and hung on expensive-looking hangers. This took someone hours.
I wonder if Mr. Romanian Jailer will shrug it off or be honest if I ask. Is he the type to be ashamed of his twisted actions, or will he own it?
Shit. I suppose it doesn’t really matter now. I’m his to do with as he pleases. The only light in this darkness is the knowledge he wouldn’t have personally hand-delivered these clothes to my room and spent time sorting and folding them into my drawers. No, he would have had one of his hired helpers take care of that, and all I can hope is that it was the little old lady who I’d thought was his housekeeper.
In the grand scheme of things, having clothes to wear is minuscule in comparison to the fact I’ve been trafficked and sold, so I try not to dwell on it. I suppose my owner likes his prisoners well-fed, well-dressed, and squeaky clean. Maybe the dirty, starving sex doll in the basement isn’t his thing after all.
Going for comfort, I find a pair of high-waisted workout shorts and a matching crop before scanning through the array of shoes. Grabbing a pair of white sneakers, I hastily put them on and pull my hair into a messy bun.
Survival 101 kicks in, and after my Romanian jailer promised I’d have free rein of this property, I leave my room, determined to explore every inch of this place to find out where I can hide, and where I can run if need be. My hand hovers on my door handle and nerves spike deep in my gut. The second I step out of my room, I’m opening myself up to his world. Allowing myself to be ridiculed and used at his will. But if I don’t leave this room or take this opportunity to learn and memorize my surroundings, I’m setting myself up to fail.
Shaking off the nerves, I forge ahead, opening the door into the silence of the hallway. Creeping out, I peer left and right and come up empty, not even a whisper of the staff who are no doubt roaming the pristine property.
I’m on the second floor. During my tour last night, all I saw up here were more bedroom suites, open sitting areas, and bathrooms. Nothing special apart from the master bedroom, which naturally, I wasn’t offered a peek into, which is honestly a shame. I was curious to see if that massive balcony overlooking the front of the property really was attached to the main bedroom.
Anything worth exploring is going to be on the ground floor, so I grip the banister and make my way down the grand staircase. The subtle padding of my sneakers against the marble tiles somehow sounds like an airhorn in this silence.
Reaching the bottom, I find myself hovering in the foyer, coming face-to-face with the doorman. He looks at me before reaching for the door handle. “Out for a run, Ma’am?” he asks in a thick accent I didn’t notice last night.
“I . . . uhhmmmm,” I say a little too awkwardly while glancing around the foyer, waiting for my world to crash down around me. “Am I allowed to go out for a run?”
“Why would you not?” he questions, his brows furrowed as he watches me with suspicion.
Not knowing how to respond or what fresh hell I’d be in if I were to step outside that door, I shuffle to the side. “I think I’ll grab something to eat first,” I say. “Can you tell me where I can find the kitchen?”
“Of course, Ma’am,” he says with a polite nod before raising his arm toward the right. “Follow the hall past the formal dining area. You’ll find a sitting area to your left. Turn there and you’ll find the kitchen. It is a lovely day, perhaps you would enjoy a sandwich out by the pool.”
“Yes,” I say with a smile, wondering just how much this guy knows. “That does sound nice. Thank you.”
With that, I turn on my heel, following his instructions toward the kitchen, taking my time while trying to take in as much as possible. I pass living spaces, the formal dining area, and what I can only guess is an office dedicated solely to security. Peeking in, I see many screens across the wall showing a live security feed that captures every inch of the property.
Shit. I suppose that takes a daring escape out of the equation. Besides, where the hell would I go where he wouldn’t find me? He knows my name, and a man like him would do his research. I’m sure by now he knows everything there is to know about me. My full name, address, and social security number. The school I went to. What I passed and failed. What dance school I attended as a kid. Which asshole I gave up my virginity to, and which piece of shit Mustang it happened in the back of.
Finding the kitchen, I stop and gape at it. It’s huge. Unnecessarily huge. But damn, it’s gorgeous.
A woman is busy in the butler’s pantry, and I shuffle toward her, unsure if I’m supposed to help myself or if she’s supposed to organize something for me. Either way, I’m a do-it-myself kind of girl. “Hi,” I say in a small voice.
Her gaze whips toward me, startled by my appearance in her kitchen. “Oh, goodness,” she says, her hand flying to her chest. “You scared me.”
“Sorry,” I say, a soft smile playing on my lips. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I was just getting a bit hungry and thought—”
“Oh yes,” she says, stepping back and welcoming me in. “You must be our new house guest. I was told to keep an eye out for you. I’m Krista.”
“Chiara,” I say with a small smile.
“Lovely to meet you, Chiara,” she says, something lighting up in her pale green eyes. “Is there anything I can get you?”
“It’s okay, you don’t need to go through any hassle,” I tell her. “I’m used to scavenging for myself.”
“It’ll be my pleasure,” Krista says. “In fact, I insist. It’ll save me from organizing this pantry for the hundredth time.”
“Okay, sure,” I say, not wanting to ruffle any feathers on day one. “The doorman suggested a sandwich out by the pool, and honestly, ever since the idea entered my head, it’s all I’ve been able to think about.”
Krista laughs. “One sandwich coming right up.”
She motions for me to take a seat at the kitchen island bench as she goes about fetching everything for one hell of a good sandwich, and I watch in awe as she works. I was thinking a few slices of cheese, maybe tomato and cucumber slapped between two pieces of bread would be sufficient, but she’s giving me the royal treatment. “So, what brings you to live here?” she questions absently, her attention focused solely on the sandwich, as if trying really hard not to meet my eye.
Not sure of what I can and can’t say, I offer her a tight smile. “I, uhhh . . . don’t think I got a choice in the matter,” I tell her in a light tone, trying not to suggest any wrongdoing on her boss’s part. Not that he deserves the kindness.
“Oh, I can imagine,” she laughs as though extremely fond of the man, making me wonder where he is. “That man is a force to be reckoned with.”
My brows bounce involuntarily, and I mutter under my breath. “Ain’t that the truth.”
As she works, Krista asks me about my dietary requirements, and when she offers me the plate, I take it eagerly. My sandwich looks back at me, presented like a work of art in small triangles, complete with a garnish and a glass of ice water. “Here you go, dear. Enjoy.”
“Thank you,” I say, collecting the plate off the island and getting up. I give her a smile before taking the glass of water and trudging out to find the back door. I don’t have to go far to find an adjoining room complete with floor-to-ceiling bi-fold doors opening up to the jaw-dropping outdoor entertainment area.
I make my way out to the poolside patio and put my plate down as I gaze out at the sparkling water, which is just as breathtaking as I’d imagined. I’d kill to be able to spend my day lounging around a pool like this. It’d be an endless vacation. Just last night I was hell-bent on finding my escape, but being in the presence of such luxury makes my feelings about leaving one thousand percent more complicated. It’s not as though I really have anything great to go back to. Hell, I doubt I even still have a job at this point.
As I soak up the sun, my gaze sails around the back of the property, taking in the tennis courts and gardens when something makes my back stiffen with unease. “I trust you slept well,” that deep, thick Romanian tone rings out.
I swallow my bite of sandwich and glance back to find my captor staring down at me wearing another black suit, and yet somehow this one seems a little more casual. Those dark eyes still hold me hostage. I place my sandwich down and hold his gaze, my chin raised high, remembering the vulnerable position he had me in last night. “Did you have someone put something in my water last night?”
“Yes,” he says, without skipping a beat. “You needed to rest, and I don’t believe you would have slept soundly without intervention.”
“That simple, huh? You could have asked.”
“Would you have taken it had I asked?”
“No.”
“Exactly.”
I gape at him. “Not even an apology for drugging me?”
He arches a brow as though bored of the conversation. “Are you well-rested?”
“Yes.”
“Then you will receive no apology.”
Picking up my sandwich, I take a slow bite, chew, and swallow, glaring at him the entire time. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re possibly the most infuriating human being on the planet?”
He shrugs his shoulders as if that’s not news to him, and I’m surprised to find he doesn’t call me out on having an attitude. Perhaps it’s only in the middle of the night when he’s tired and pissed off that he won’t tolerate my bullshit.
He steps around the small table and pulls out a chair, casually taking a seat and leaning back. He doesn’t say a word, just continues watching me, and as the seconds tick by, the silence becomes too loud. “Your doorman asked if I wanted to go out for a run.”
He gives me a blank stare. “And?” he questions, his gaze dropping down my body. “You’re dressed for a run. Why wouldn’t he ask if you wanted to go for a run?”
“I just . . . I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to go out for a run.”
“Then why get dressed for a run at all?”
“I didn’t get dressed for a run,” I say, frustration gnawing at me. “I just like to wear comfortable clothes, and as it happened, I just look like I want to go for a run.”
“So, what’s your problem?” he questions. “You want me to put a bullet between his eyes for suggesting you wanted to go for a run?”
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I gape. “Absolutely not. I just wanted to know how much trouble I was going to get in if I did happen to walk out the door and go for a run?”
“Why would you get in trouble?” he pushes, staring at me as though I’m the one losing my mind here. “I told you last night, you have free rein of my home. That includes the outdoor areas. However, I suggest you do not venture into the woods. I cannot guarantee that there won’t be creatures lurking after dark.”
A shiver sails down my spine, and I nod, my gaze dropping to the table. “I don’t like to run.”
He watches me a moment longer, and I feel that intense, dark gaze lingering on my face. As I look back up to meet his stare, I find a strange fondness in his eyes. “I find your awkward ramblings quite?.?.?. amusing.”
I nervously worry at my bottom lip. “Is that why you haven’t threatened me with some kind of horrendous punishment yet?”
He nods and there’s a rich honesty in his eyes. “I believe so.”
I swallow hard, continuing to watch him, and the longer I hold his stare, the harder it becomes to breathe. “Why did you save me from that place?”
My Romanian captor leans forward, reaching across the table until his fingertips brush against my chin before curling them around my jaw and holding my stare. The tension booms between us, and I can barely breathe as a flurry of nerves shoots through me. He holds me there, refusing to let me look away. “Do not mistake me for your hero. I am not,” he says, that thick accent wrapping around me, his fingers so soft against my skin. “You are my property to do with as I please. And given time, you will learn to embrace it. Whatever life you had before this, forget about it. You belong to me now.”
I nod, the need to please him flourishing through my veins.
Why does he make me feel this way? I should be running or figuring out how to get out. Yet, every time he’s around me, I fall into his trap. He’s already warned me he’s not the hero in my story, and yet I crave to be near him.
In that warehouse, when he stood in the shadows with his stare locked on mine, I felt something. There’s a strange pull every time our eyes meet, and if he hadn’t felt the connection, surely he wouldn’t have claimed me as his own. The other men in that warehouse looked surprised to see him, shocked that he would take a girl as his own, so why now? There must be something more. Something he sees in me that intrigues him, draws him in. All I know is that if he didn’t care, he would have allowed Broken Nose to take me home, and my night would have been very different.
I shake my head, and his hand falls away. Maybe I’m reading too much into this. Maybe he just felt it was time he took someone home to fuck, and I just happened to be the easiest to claim. “Why me?” I ask him. “There were four other girls in that room. You could have easily taken any one of them.”
He leans back in his chair with a stiff stare, and I don’t bother waiting for a response that obviously isn’t coming. I get to my feet as a wave of disappointment crashes through me, scooping my glass of water off the table and lifting it to my lips before taking a quick sip.
Taking a breath, I fix him with a stare. “Are you ever going to tell me who you are?”
He doesn’t move, not even the slightest flinch of his lips, yet the way he stares back at me is filled with such cockiness that I’m ready to break all his rules and put this motherfucker right in his place. Knowing what’s good for me, I rein it in and let out a disappointed sigh before finally averting my gaze.
I stride past him, my appetite gone, when his strong fingers curl around my elbow, pulling me up short. “I must attend business this evening,” he tells me as my gaze drops to meet his, that thick accent doing wicked things to me. But it’s got nothing on his touch. “However, after I return, you will meet me in my chambers.”
I swallow hard, searching deep into those dark pits of hell. “Why?”
My Romanian captor stands, towering over me as my gaze rises, locked within his vicious stare. He leans in, his body pressed against mine as his fingers trail down to my wrist, his scent overwhelming me and making my knees weak. “Because I’m going to fuck you just hard enough to make you believe you want this.”
And with that, he releases his grip and strides past me, disappearing back inside his home. I’m left gaping after him with my heart racing, equal parts terrified and giddy for what’s about to come.