3. Kit
CHAPTER 3
KIT
The air in this gilded prison feels heavy with unspoken threats and dark promises. I pace the luxurious room—my cell—while trying to process Raphael's parting words from our first encounter. Training. The way he said it sent shivers down my spine.
A knock at the door makes me jump. A stern-faced man in a dark suit enters, carrying a tray. "Mr. Kova? requests you join him for dinner."
I lift my chin. "And if I refuse?"
"Then I'm to escort you regardless of your preferences." His expression doesn't change. "Mr. Kova? was quite clear about that."
Of course he was. I consider refusing just to be difficult, but my stomach betrays me with an audible growl. The guard's lip twitches slightly.
"Fine." I gesture grandly. "Lead the way."
The halls we traverse are a maze of opulence—gleaming hardwood, priceless art, subtle security cameras tracking our every move. My bare feet sink into plush carpets that probably cost more than a year's worth of pointe shoes.
The dining room is massive, dominated by a long table that could seat twenty. Raphael sits at the head, looking infuriatingly composed in another perfectly tailored suit. He rises as I enter, the gesture oddly courtly.
"Kit. I trust you've had time to settle in?"
"If by 'settle in' you mean 'accept my kidnapping,' then no, not really."
His smile is sharp. "Sit. The chef has prepared something special."
I consider refusing, but the guard's hand on my shoulder guides me firmly into the chair to Raphael's right. The proximity is unnerving—I can smell his cologne, something expensive and masculine that makes my head spin.
"Wine?" He lifts a crystal decanter.
"I don't drink with kidnappers."
"How inconvenient." He fills my glass anyway. "I find alcohol often helps facilitate honest conversation."
"Nothing about this situation is honest."
He sets down the decanter, fixing me with that penetrating stare. "On the contrary. I've been completely truthful about my intentions. You're here until I'm satisfied you're no longer a threat—or until you become something else entirely."
"Something else?"
"We'll see." His gaze travels over me slowly, assessing. "Eat. You'll need your strength."
The food is exquisite—some kind of herb-crusted fish that melts on my tongue. I hate how good it tastes, hate how my body betrays me by responding to this forced luxury.
"Tell me about Lady Ashworth," he says after I've eaten several bites. "When did she first approach you?"
I set down my fork. "I told you, I don't know anything important."
"Let me be the judge of that." His voice carries a warning edge. "Answer the question, Kit."
"Or what?" I meet his gaze defiantly. "You'll hurt me? Kill me? Go ahead."
"There are so many more interesting options between those extremes." He takes a sip of wine. "I can make your stay here very pleasant—or very uncomfortable. The choice is yours."
"I choose neither. I choose to leave."
"That's not an option." His hand shoots out, grasping my wrist when I start to stand. His grip is like iron, but his thumb strokes my pulse point almost tenderly. "Sit down, little dancer. You're not going anywhere."
The contrast between the forceful grip and gentle caress makes my head spin. I sink back into my chair, hating how my body responds to his touch.
"Good boy." He releases my wrist but leaves his hand on the table between us, a subtle threat. "Now, Lady Ashworth. Start from the beginning."
I take a large swallow of wine, needing its warmth. "She started coming to my private shows three months ago. Always requested me specifically. The tips were... generous."
"And the questions?"
"Seemed harmless at first. Club schedules, delivery times. Then more specific things—who came to the VIP section, what they discussed." I stare into my wine glass. "I knew it wasn't right, but the money..."
"Was too good to resist?" His voice holds no judgment. "She's quite skilled at finding people's pressure points. Your debts made you an easy target."
"I'm not weak."
"No." His hand moves to my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. "Just desperate. But desperation can be... redirected."
His touch sends electricity through my veins. I jerk away, standing abruptly. "I'm done playing these games. Either kill me or let me go."
In one fluid motion, he's on his feet, backing me against the dining room wall. His body cages mine, one hand braced beside my head, the other returning to my throat.
"You don't give orders here, little dancer." His voice is soft but deadly serious. "You're mine now—to punish, to protect, to shape as I see fit."
"I don't belong to anyone."
"Look me in the eyes and say that again." His thumb strokes my racing pulse. "Your body betrays you, Kit. You respond to my dominance even as you fight it."
He's right, damn him. My breath comes faster, my skin tingles where he touches me. Even my instinctive defiance feels like part of a dance we're both choreographing.
"I hate you," I whisper, but it sounds weak even to my ears.
"No." His lips brush my ear. "You hate how much you want to submit to me. But we'll work on that."
Before I can respond, he steps back, leaving me cold and shaking against the wall. "Return to your room. We begin properly tomorrow."
"Begin what?"
His smile is predatory. "Breaking down those walls you've built. Teaching you the pleasure of surrender. Making you mine in every way that matters."
The guard appears to escort me back, but I barely notice the journey. My skin still burns where Raphael touched me, and his words echo in my head. Breaking down walls. Surrender. Mine.
Back in my room, I press my forehead against the cool window glass, trying to steady my racing heart. I should be plotting escape, should be terrified. Instead, I'm fighting an unwanted surge of anticipation.
What kind of person does that make me? What does it say that part of me wants to discover exactly what Raphael's version of "training" entails?
I catch my reflection in the window—flushed cheeks, dilated pupils, the ghost of his hand still visible on my throat. I barely recognize myself, this creature caught between defiance and desire.
Tomorrow, he said. Tomorrow we begin.
God help me, but I can hardly wait.