Chapter 23 #2
“You seem… close.”
Too close. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to look at him. Close enough to notice the small scar through his left eyebrow that makes him look even more dangerous.
My heart is doing that stupid racing thing again, and I can’t tell if it’s fear or something infinitely more problematic.
He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small velvet box.
Oh, God. Is this—? No. That’s insane. He’s not—
He opens it.
Not a ring. Thank Christ. But jewelry that looks like it will never fit into any budget I could afford.
A watch. Delicate, gold, with a face that catches the light like captured starfire. Beside it, a matching bracelet that looks like liquid sunshine.
“Cartier,” he says, like that explains everything.
I stare at the jewelry. “Why?”
“Because you need them.”
“I need a Cartier watch?”
“You need to be tracked.”
The words sink in slowly, like stones dropping through water.
“Tracked.”
“GPS in the watch. Audio recording in the bracelet.” He lifts the watch from the box, and his fingers are steady as he reaches for my wrist. “We’ll know where you are. Who you’re talking to. What you’re saying.”
I jerk my hand back. “That’s— That’s completely invasive.”
“That’s completely necessary.”
“I’m not wearing spy jewelry.”
“Yes, you are.”
The certainty in his voice makes my skin crawl and burn at the same time.
“What if I refuse?”
He steps closer. I didn’t think it was possible, but somehow there’s even less space between us now. His chest is inches from mine, and I can feel the heat radiating off him like a furnace.
“You won’t.”
“How can you be so sure?”
His hand comes up slowly, fingers curling around my wrist with gentle, implacable pressure. His thumb finds my pulse point, and I know he can feel how fast my heart is beating.
“Because you’re smart enough to know the difference between protection and prison,” he says quietly. “And smart enough to know which one keeps you breathing.”
His touch is warm. Steady. Completely at odds with the threat in his words.
I should pull away. Should tell him to go to hell. Should definitely not be noticing how his thumb is tracing small circles against my skin.
Instead, I stand there like an idiot while he fastens the watch around my wrist.
The metal is cool, deceptively light for something that’s basically a tracking collar. Beautiful enough that no one would ever suspect it’s anything more than expensive jewelry.
“Perfect fit,” he murmurs, and something in his voice makes my stomach clench.
He picks up the bracelet next, and this time I don’t resist when he takes my other wrist. His fingers are surprisingly gentle as he works the delicate clasp, like he’s handling something precious.
Like he’s handling me like something precious.
Which is completely insane, because I’m a liability he’s managing, not a girlfriend he’s spoiling.
“There,” he says, stepping back to admire his work. “Beautiful.”
I look down at the jewelry. It is beautiful. Elegant. The kind of accessories I used to stare at in magazines and dream about owning someday, when I had money and a life that made sense.
Now I’m wearing them, and they feel like the most expensive shackles ever made.
“These probably cost more than I make in a year,” I say.
“Two years,” he corrects. “But who’s counting?”
The casual display of wealth should intimidate me. Instead, it does something weird to my chest. Like he’s showing off. Like he wants to impress me.
Which is ridiculous. He’s not trying to impress me. He’s tracking me.
Right?
“We should go,” he says, checking his own watch; black, masculine, probably worth a small fortune.
He’s still standing close. Too close. I can see the way his shirt stretches across his chest, the hint of muscle beneath expensive fabric. I notice how broad his shoulders are, how his body seems to take up all the available space.
And then—God help me—my eyes drift lower.
I can’t help it. The memory hits me like a freight train: my drunk hands on his jeans that night, the hard length of him beneath the denim. The way he’d gone perfectly still, like he was fighting not to react.
Heat floods my cheeks as my gaze drops to his belt, and lower, where the fabric of his pants hints at exactly what I remember touching.
Stop it, Mary. Stop looking.
But I can’t. He’s right there, all heat and hard edges and dangerous masculinity, and my body is remembering things my brain wishes it could forget.
“Don’t want to be late on your first day back,” he says, and his voice is deeper now. Rougher.
I snap my eyes up, heart hammering. He’s watching me, and there’s something dark and knowing in his expression. Like he caught me looking. Like he knows exactly what I was thinking about.
God, he’s beautiful. Unfairly, devastatingly beautiful in the way that dangerous men always are. Hard angles and lethal grace combine, like he was carved from stone and brought to life specifically to ruin women’s common sense.
Jesus, Mary. Get it together. He’s a killer. A mafia enforcer. Don’t be stupid.
First day back. Right. Back to pretending Dave didn’t die in front of me. Back to acting like my life didn’t implode into a mafia thriller overnight.
“Anton?”
He pauses, jacket halfway on.
“Can I speak to my grandma?”
He reaches into his inside pocket and pulls out a phone. Not my phone; this one is sleek, black, clearly the latest model. Way out of my price range.
“Where’s my phone?” I ask.
“This is your phone now.” His voice carries that bossy, possessive edge that makes my skin prickle. “All your contacts have been transferred. Your grandmother’s number is programmed in.”
I take the phone, noting how warm it is from being against his chest. “This is…”
“Yes,” he says, knowing exactly what I’m asking. “It tracks everything. Calls, texts, location, browsing history. Everything.”
The casual way he admits to complete surveillance should terrify me. Instead, it sends a strange thrill through my chest that I don’t want to examine too closely.
He looks at me then—really looks—and his eyes drag down my body in a way that makes me suddenly, acutely aware of what I’m wearing.
The blouse that fits perfectly, the skirt that hugs my curves. Professional, but somehow the way he’s looking at me makes it feel intimate. Dangerous.
“Ready?” he asks, and there’s something rough in his voice.
I nod, clutching the phone, and head toward the elevator with him.
It’s only as we wait for the doors to open, standing close in the confined space, that I realize the truth I’ve been trying to ignore.
My panties are wet.
From looking at him. From the way he looked at me. From the dark promise in his voice.
I’m attracted to my captor.
And that’s the most dangerous thing of all.