Chapter Forty #2
It’s obviously for me.
Was this his plan all along? Did he really build this cage in his mansion just for me? In preparation of one day abducting me??
My initial gut reaction is to be sort of… charmed.
But then ew. No. I quickly pull my head out of my ass and remind myself of the correct response, which is to be outraged by the blatant kidnapping.
You’re not supposed to be flattered by someone wanting to abduct you, no matter how nice the pit in Buffalo Bill’s basement is.
Jesus, idiota. Not cute. Creepy.
Not flattering. A felony.
Let’s just recognize the appropriate feelings of indignation here.
Who knows, maybe it’s not for me… Maybe this is just where he keeps his victims, because he’s pretty much a serial killer. Only he’s way too rich and powerful to do it the normal way, so he resorts to ostentatious games, like hunting people for sport.
I’d honestly be very surprised if he doesn’t already do that. He’s got the private island and everything…
An hour of jumbled thoughts later, I’m freshly showered, and despite my insides being all twisted up, on the outside, I feel like I’ve been reborn. I really needed that.
But then the thought of putting my dirty nighty back on my clean, freshly exfoliated skin has me frowning.
Boo. That’s no fun.
Padding out into the cell with a towel around my waist, I go for the dresser, not at all surprised to find it stocked with clothes. All brand new, tags on everything. I don’t even need to check to know they’re all my size.
Of course they are.
Lifting up a pair of lace panties, my eyebrow cocks. “You’ve gotta be kidding me…”
“No te gusta?”
I jump nearly a foot in the air, the panties flying out of my hands.
The Ivory chuckles, a smug little rumble from where he’s standing outside the cage door. I aim a promptly scathing glare at him while clutching the towel around my waist, despising the flush I can feel rushing up my neck into my face.
“I see you found the shower,” he chirps, pleasantly. As if I’m a houseguest, not a fucking prisoner he’s speaking to through the bars of my cage. “Nice, isn’t it?”
“Luxurious,” I grunt, venomously sarcastic as my gaze narrows. “Cut the shit, Diablo. What is this…? What am I doing in here?”
His head cocks. “You mean your cage? Do you not like it?”
I simply gawk at him, mouth hanging agape.
What in the holy hell am I supposed to say to that?
Sighing, he pulls a key out of his pocket—just one, long, antiquated brass, to match the cage—and uses it to unlock the door. He steps inside, and I’m immediately on edge.
“I had this built four years ago.” He strides over to the dresser and scoots in next to me. I step aside, feeling like I’ve been pushed out of the way as he opens a drawer. “After The Edge… when you kicked me in the balls.”
He turns an accusatory brow-arch at me, though there are visible traces of amusement in the gleam of his dark eyes and the curve of his full lips.
“It was actually more of a knee,” I mumble.
The mild amusement turns to a full smirk. “Right. How could I forget.” He goes on, sifting through the drawers. “You see, Angel, I knew you’d be back. It was only a matter of time.” He peeks at me again. “You know, like that song. One way, or another, I’m gonna find you… and so on.”
Another small chuckle rumbles out of him, likely from the look of bewilderment on my face.
“Anyway, when I did getcha getcha getcha, I was absolutely not going to let you fly away again. That was when I decided a birdcage would be just the thing to tie the garden aviary together.” He thrusts a handful of clothes at me. “The perfect place for my little bird.”
I’m gaping at him like he’s insane, a million questions, comments, and concerns flying around the aviary in my skull.
He struts past me, and my eyes fall to the clothing I’m now cradling in my arms. I watch him as he takes a graceful seat on the bed.
“So what does that make you?” I sneer. “The Birdman of Alabaster Isle?”
He lets out this jovial burst of laughter that really throws me off, because of how it lights up his face and brings an incandescence to those orbs of obsidian devilry I didn’t think was possible.
“I’m not staying in here,” I stand my ground, forcing myself to push past the stupid flutters and remember who I am.
You are the son of Arturo Alvarez. You will not be bested.
Don’t make the same mistake he did and fall for the charismata of this illusionist.
“Are you sure about that?” The Ivory hums, squinting up at me.
A taunting look I’d love to dropkick off his face.
God, I cannot believe I didn’t stab him last night… I must have been high.
“Look…” I murmur, taking on a new tactic, since I know fighting back with aggression is what he wants. “You probably have a lot on your plate right now, what with the prison falling apart and your former soldiers starting a mutiny and all.”
The amusement is gone in a flash, his expression shifting to frustration-laced curiosity. I think I’m one of very few people not intimidated by that look.
Although I can’t say it doesn’t make me sorta gushy, but one problem at a time.
“I’m sure you don’t have time to be looking after yet another problem.” I take a step closer, still clutching clothes to my chest. “Especially one who has every intention of slicing you open…”
The quirk is back on his lips. “I look forward to it, Angelito. Third time’s the charm, si? That’s what they say…”
Fuming, I can practically feel the steam blowing from my ears. “Momentary lapses in judgement,” I growl.
He pulls a purposeful pout. “Of course.”
“Go ahead and underestimate me,” I hiss, then shrug to display a composure I’m losing fast. “Drop your guard, Marfil. I’ll be waiting.” I give him a smirk of my own. “If there’s one thing I have in abundance, it’s time. In fact, I have almost as much time as I have disdain for you.”
“I have never, nor will I ever, underestimate you, pajarito,” he says softly. Something about that tone tickles a spot in my brain that releases serotonin against my will. “And trust me, I am well aware of how thoroughly you revile me.”
Struggling not to drop my chin and shift in place, I clench my jaw and stand still. The rage he drums up in me just by existing, and doing so in his equanimous egotist way, is making me uncomfortable. Unfortunately, though, it’s not the only sensation weaving fidgets in my limbs.
“Well, if you’re planning to kill me, I’d rather you just get it over with,” I seethe, having lost all of my patience for this cat-and-mouse nonsense.
Go figure, now that I’m seriously ready to stab him, my knife is gone.
He took it. Because I fucking let him.
The Ivory frowns. “Why would I ever want to kill you?”
“I dunno, maybe because I’ve been trying to kill you for years,” I grumble. “All the while breaking into your businesses, relentlessly stalking and spying on you in pursuit of that, which means I’ve probably seen and heard things you don’t want anyone, let alone a sworn enemy, knowing??”
He stares at me blankly for a moment. “That sounds like a perfectly acceptable excuse for why I’m keeping you here, pajarito.” He grins, folding his hands in his lap.
I hate that tone. Condescending. Pitying, even, and I don’t need his fucking pity.
I’m better off than he’ll ever be.
“Now, put some clothes on, won’t you? It’s cold in here, and I don’t want you getting sick.” He goes on, demanding things of me, while making it seem like it’s for my benefit.
My gaze narrows. “Don’t patronize me. I want to know why I’m in here…”
“I just told you.” He rolls his eyes.
“Yea, except that it’s obvious bullshit,” I snap. “This cage has nothing to do with retribution. If you’re going to hold me here and force me to look at you on a regular basis, I think I deserve some answers.”
His lips twitch, and it annoys me to no end. “Not sure I agree with that sentiment—”
“How long do you plan on keeping me locked in this cage?” I cut off his fractious comment. “What do you want from me? Does anyone else know I’m in here? Where’s all the gunfire coming from? Is it even safe in here, or am I a sitting damn duck??”
“Dear God,” he groans, flopping onto his back. “Angelito, por favor… Enough. You’re giving me a migraine.”
I don’t know what about this has me wanting to grin. Call it the satisfaction of his dissatisfaction, I guess.
Good to know… If I can’t stab him, maybe I can annoy him to death.
“I was just wondering…”
He sits back up, pinning me with a stern glare. “No more questions, baby. Get dressed now or I’ll do it for you myself.”
Fighting hard against the shivers and warmth in my face from that fucking word, I glance down at my semi-nakedness. “Why are you harassing me to put clothes on?”
When last night, you seemed pretty hellbent on taking them off.
“Because… you’re distracting me,” he says, firm yet quiet.
That one sentence, in that tone, increases the steady thump of my pulse to a more rapid knocking. The notion of this older, powerful, dangerous man—my parents’ killer, no less—being distracted simply by my exposed skin is thrilling.
God, why is that the hottest thing ever??
I absolutely could have killed him last night. That’s the most cumbersome part of all this… He’s admittedly distracted, and apparently mesmerized.
It’s not him. It’s me.
He didn’t outsmart or defeat me. With my father’s knife in my hand, el diablo said,“You should, sweet Angelito… You should definitely kill me.”
It’s all my fault that he’s still here, alive and breathing and fucking everything up. It’s my fault for getting swept up in the unexpected way he’s not at all behaving like the sadistic fuck who killed my parents.
God fucking dammit, Diablo, you are distracting me too.