Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Valentina
The lock clicks.
My pulse hammers against my ribs, steady and hard, the kind of rhythm that lives in my throat when I’ve already decided someone is going to bleed.
The lamp is awkward and heavier than it looked, and keeping it lifted and steady makes my arms shake.
Praying the little eye doesn’t see me right here and that I have the element of surprise, I press my back to the wall and lock my muscles while my heart hammers.
Soundlessly the knob begins to turn.
There’s a footstep. Slow. Deliberate. Then a second…
The moment he crosses the threshold, I swing.
The lamp arcs clean and fast. I put every ounce of my body weight behind it, rotating my shoulders and twisting my hips the way Santo taught me years ago when we were still pretending I was just a girl who needed to know how to defend herself from drunk frat boys.
Stunning me, I connect with the side of his head, and he staggers half a step.
That’s all. Half a fucking step.
Jaw set, he snaps his hand up, catching my wrist mid-follow-through.
With precision, he twists.
Instantly pain flares bright and white up my forearm. The lamp slides from my numb fingers and crashes to the floor.
Glass shatters somewhere near my toes. I don’t look down. Instead, I drive my knee toward his groin.
The infuriating man is already turning, as if he was expecting my move.
His thigh blocks mine, and the momentum slams me forward into his chest.
Heat rolls off him—clean sweat, that damning faint citrus scent and, underneath it all the dark, smoky trace of Bonds whiskey.
My breasts crush against the hard planes of his pecs.
Impossibly my nipples pebble against the soft cotton of his shirt even as fury scorches through me.
I wrench backward. He doesn’t let go.
Instead, he kicks the door shut with his heel, the sound ricocheting off the ceiling, and he spins us both until my spine hits the wall.
Then his forearm braces across my collarbone—not choking, just pinning—while his other hand still locks my wrist beside my head.
Our faces are inches apart. His breath brushes my lips in short, controlled bursts. Mine comes in ragged gasps.
Blood trickles from a shallow cut at his temple where the lamp glanced off. A thin red line slides down the side of his face, dark against tanned skin, and pools at the corner of his jaw before dripping onto the collar of his black button-down.
If it hurts, he doesn’t show it. And he doesn’t wipe away the blood. Instead, he watches me with his dark eyes, made even more intense by the single lamp still burning on the nightstand.
“Valentina.” My name in his mouth sounds different now—lower, rougher, like he’s tasting it for the first time since he carried me in here. “You really thought that would work?”
I bare my teeth. “I thought it would hurt you more.” Actually I’d hoped it would knock him out so I could escape.
A muscle ticks in his jaw.
The cut keeps bleeding, slow and steady. He shifts his weight, pressing me harder against the wall, and I feel the thick ridge of his erection notch against my lower belly through the borrowed sweatpants.
What the hell?
This made him hard? What the fuck kind of man is he?
“My little spitfire.”
His gaze drops to my mouth, then he purposefully moves lower to linger on the way my chest rises and falls beneath his maroon Texas A&M sweatshirt.
The neckline has slipped sideways, leaving one of my shoulders bare.
His pupils flare again.
“You’re bleeding on me,” I say, voice tight, trying helplessly to force him away.
“You hit me with a lamp.” With his thumb, he strokes along the inside of my captured wrist, a slow, deliberate glide that sends sparks racing up my arm. “I’d say that makes us even.”
I jerk against his hold.
The movement only grinds us closer, making him grin.
He wedges his strong thigh between mine—unhurried, purposeful—and the firm muscle presses right against the seam of the sweatpants, directly over my clit.
And he intentionally angles a little bit, creating pressure. Then he moves. Once. Twice.
The slight, maddening friction forces a low, involuntary sound from me.
His eyes darken to pure black. “Oh, Valentina.”
“Don’t.” The word escapes me, sharp and unyielding, carrying the weight of every instinct screaming inside my skull.
My voice vibrates against his forearm, still braced across my collarbone, the pressure firm enough to remind me of his strength without cutting off my air.
His thigh remains wedged between mine, creating an unmovable barrier that forces my legs apart just enough to make me acutely aware of every shift in his balance, every subtle flex of muscle.
Heat radiates from him, seeping through the layers of fabric—his slacks against the borrowed sweatpants, his shirt brushing the sweatshirt I scavenged from his closet.
My skin prickles beneath it all, a flush creeping up my chest, but I lock my jaw against the unwelcome sensation, refusing to let my body betray me further.
“Don’t what?” His breath fans across my face, warm and laced with that smoky whiskey undertone, stirring the loose strands of hair.
The closeness amplifies everything—the faint metallic tang of his blood in the air, the steady thrum of his pulse where his wrist presses against mine, the way his chest expands with each controlled inhale, brushing my breasts in a rhythm that sends unwanted sparks skittering along my nerves.
I swallow hard.
My throat is still dry. There’s a lingering haze from whatever drug he used earlier, making my thoughts feel like they’re wading through molasses.
Anger surges again, hot and clarifying, pushing back the fog.
He’s the one who did this to me—drugged me, stripped me, locked me away like some prize in his twisted game.
I curl my free hand into a fist at my side, nails biting into my palm, the small pain grounding me. I won’t let him see how much this unnerves me, how the proximity of his body stirs a confusion I can’t afford.
“Get away from me.” I force the words out, each one laced with the steel I’ve honed over years at my father’s side, negotiating with men who’d sooner slit my throat than admit a woman could outthink them.
My heart pounds harder, echoing in my ears, but I hold his gaze, refusing to blink first.
A faint smile curves his lips, not mocking but something darker, more resigned, like he expected this resistance and finds it almost amusing. Or perhaps intriguing.
The thought sends a fresh wave of irritation through me—does he think this is a game? That I’ll fold under his stare? Blood continues to trickle from the cut at his temple, a slow rivulet that now stains the collar of his shirt.
He doesn’t seem to notice or care. Hs focus is entirely on me, and his dark eyes search my face as if cataloging every microexpression, every flicker of emotion I can’t quite hide.
His thumb strokes my wrist again, a deliberate caress that sends an involuntary shiver racing up my arm, raising goose bumps in its wake.
His touch is light, almost absentminded, but it feels intentional, probing for weakness.
My stomach twists, a mix of revulsion and something sharper, more primal, that I shove down deep.
How dare he? After everything—after carrying me here like a sack of goods, undressing me with those same hands.
Fragments of memory tease at the edges of my mind: the gentle slide of a zipper, cool air on my skin, soft murmurs that might have been soothing if they hadn’t come from him.
Determinedly I angle my chin. He has no idea who he’s dealing with. And it’s time he remembered. “I will not have you touching me. Step back.”
“I won’t.” His voice is low, gravelly, carrying a finality that makes my breath hitch.
“You have no idea the hell you’ve unleashed on yourself.”
“Mmm.”
Again, he seems totally unconcerned.
My mind races as I piece together the puzzle of everything that’s happened. He knows my name, called it earlier like it was familiar, expected.
My kidnapping wasn’t random. It was calculated, planned.
Personal.
For the first time, real fear coils tighter in my gut, cold and insistent, mingling with the anger until I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
I have to get out of here.
I twist my wrist in his grip, but he tightens his fingers to hold me fast. I doubt he cares if he leaves bruises.
Pain flares again, a dull ache that radiates up my forearm, reminding me of the failed swing. The lamp is shattered on the floor, its glass fragments glinting in the low light like scattered diamonds.
The room feels smaller now, and the walls close in. The air is thick with the scent of him—citrus, whiskey, blood—and the faint ozone tang of my own adrenaline-fueled sweat.
“Who the hell are you?” I demand, my voice steadier than I feel, each word pushing against the pressure of his arm.