Chapter 6
CHAPTER 6
I step into the bathroom and catch my breath. It's all gleaming marble and glass—nothing like the cozy vintage charm of my own apartment. Everything here screams money and power. The shower alone is bigger than my closet at home, with multiple shower heads and some kind of digital control panel. The countertops are pristine white marble with subtle gray veining. Even the towels look expensive, thick and plush, hanging on heated racks.
I lock the door behind me, though I'm not naive enough to think it would stop him if he wanted to come in. A flimsy lock against a man who just took down three armed attackers? The thought should terrify me.
But it doesn't. Not really.
I can't explain why I'm not shaking with fear. Maybe it's shock. Maybe it's because he had every opportunity to hurt me already and didn't. Or maybe it's the way he looked at me when he thought I wasn't watching—like I was something precious, not just property to be claimed.
I strip off my concert dress, now stained with blood that isn't mine, and step into the shower. The hot water hits my skin and I finally let myself feel everything I've been holding back.
"Don't cry," I say to myself. "Don't you dare cry."
The command reminds me of my father. How many times had he said those exact words to me before performances?
"Straighten your back, Evelyn. Don't slouch."
"That passage was sloppy. Again. From the beginning."
"Tears are weakness. Excellence doesn't weep."
I let the water run over my face, washing away the tears that come despite my best efforts. My whole life has been about control—my father's control. Every note I played, every dress I wore, every smile I gave to an audience. All of it choreographed by Alexander Anderson, who saw his daughter not as a person but as an extension of himself.
My mother was no better. She'd sit silently during my father's critiques, occasionally offering a gentle "Listen to your father, Evelyn. He knows what's best."
The irony isn't lost on me. I've escaped one prison only to find myself in another. Yet somehow, this gilded cage feels different. Noah Rivera may be dangerous—he's clearly capable of violence—but he looks at me like he sees me. Not just the violin prodigy, not just the perfect daughter, but me.
I press my forehead against the cool stone of the shower wall. What is wrong with me? I should be terrified. I should be plotting my escape, not standing here contemplating the strange lack of fear I feel toward my captor.
I rinse the shampoo from my hair, trying to focus on the simple task rather than the man waiting outside the door. But my mind keeps drifting back to Noah. Those dark eyes. The way his shirt stretches across his shoulders. The casual confidence in how he moves.
"Stop it," I mutter to myself, turning the water temperature colder.
It's ridiculous. He kidnapped me. He's holding me against my will. He's dangerous and probably kills people for a living. And yet...
A warmth spreads through my lower belly that has nothing to do with the shower. I press my thighs together, shocked at my body's betrayal. What kind of woman gets turned on by her captor? The kind of women who read those dark romance novels, who fantasize about being taken by dangerous men with tattoos and scars.
I'm not that woman. I'm Evelyn Anderson. I play Paganini at Carnegie Hall. I drink tea with my pinky out. I don't daydream about criminals, no matter how attractive they might be.
Besides, it's been over a year since David and I broke up. David, with his safe corporate job and his safe corporate apartment and his safe, boring sex that never quite satisfied me. The few men I've dated since then never made it past a second date. My body is just... reacting to proximity. To adrenaline. To anything male after so long.
It doesn't mean anything.
I turn off the water with more force than necessary and step out, wrapping one of those ridiculously soft towels around my body. My reflection in the mirror looks different somehow. My cheeks are flushed, my eyes too bright.
"This is insanity," I whisper to my reflection. "Get it together."
I dry off quickly and eye the clothes Noah left for me. A simple black T-shirt that will hang to my knees and a pair of sweatpants with a drawstring. Nothing revealing or suggestive. Nothing to indicate he's thinking about me the way I've been thinking about him.
Which is good. Because I'm not thinking about him. Not like that.
I pull on the clothes, which smell like him—cedar and something spicy—and take a deep breath. Time to face my captor with a clear head and absolutely no inappropriate thoughts.
I step out of the bathroom, towel-drying my hair, and nearly collide with Noah's chest. My heart leaps into my throat.
"Jesus!" I stumble backward, clutching the doorframe. "Were you just standing there the whole time?"
Noah doesn't move, doesn't even blink. His eyes travel down my body—from my damp hair to my face, lingering on my lips, then continuing down to where his oversized shirt hangs off my frame. The sweatpants sit low on my hips despite the drawstring being pulled tight.
His gaze is like a physical touch. Hot. Possessive. Hungry.
My breath catches. If this were any other situation—if he weren't essentially my kidnapper, if we'd met at a bar or after one of my concerts—that look would have led to clothes being torn off, bodies pressed against walls.
"I need to make sure you don't do anything stupid," he says, voice lower and rougher than before.
I cross my arms over my chest, suddenly aware of how the shirt clings to my still-damp skin. "Like what? Escape through the bathroom window thirty floors up?"
A muscle in his jaw twitches. "You'd be surprised what people try when they're desperate."
"I'm not desperate." The lie comes easily. "I'm angry."
Noah steps closer. I refuse to back away, even though every instinct screams at me to put distance between us. His scent envelops me—the same cedar and spice from his clothes, but stronger, mixed with something distinctly male.
"You should be scared," he says.
"Is that what you want? For me to be scared of you?"
His eyes darken. "It would be smarter than whatever you're feeling right now."
Heat floods my cheeks.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I say, aiming for cool indifference but landing somewhere closer to breathless confusion.
Noah's lips curve into something that's not quite a smile. "Yes, you do."
He reaches out, and for one wild moment I think he's going to touch me. Instead he grabs a strand of my wet hair between his fingers, rubs it gently, then lets it fall.
"Get some sleep, Evelyn. Tomorrow's going to be a long day."
I swallow hard, fighting the inexplicable disappointment that washes over me. "What happens tomorrow?"
"We figure out how to keep you alive."
I watch her cross to the bed where her violin case still lies, shoulders tensing with each step. The moonlight spills through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long shadows across the hardwood floors. Her fingers grip the violin case like it might save her from drowning.
She gazes around the room, taking in the king-size bed with its dark gray sheets, the minimalist furniture, the absence of personal items. Nothing here tells a story about me—exactly as I prefer it.
Evelyn turns to me, her wet hair framing her face. "Are the sheets clean?"
The question catches me off guard and a laugh escapes before I can stop it. Not the cold, calculated laugh I use to intimidate, but something genuine that surprises even me.
"The woman who cleans the apartment changed them yesterday," I say, watching her face. "Perfect timing for unexpected guests."
Her eyes narrow as she processes this information. "So you've slept in them at least once."
Something about her concern over sharing sheets with me stirs something inside me—amusement, maybe, or something darker. I step closer, watching her body language shift.
"Does that bother you?" I ask, my voice dropping lower. "Knowing I've been between those sheets?"
Her cheeks flush and I can see the pulse at her throat quicken. Anger flashes in her eyes—not fear, but genuine frustration.
"You're disgusting," she snaps but there's something beneath her words that catches my attention. Something that feels like attraction wrapped in denial.
I don't move, just watch her. "You asked."
Evelyn glares at me before marching to the bed and sitting on the edge. She places her violin case carefully beside her, then lies down, turning her back to me in one fluid motion.
"Get out," she says, her voice muffled against the pillow. "Now."
I stare at her back, amused by her command. For a woman who's essentially my prisoner, she's got more fire than most men I've killed.
"That's not happening," I say, moving toward the bed. "This is my room."
She sits up so fast her hair whips around, water droplets flying. "I am not sleeping in the same bed as you."
I smirk, enjoying the way her eyes flash with defiance. "Worried you might enjoy it?"
"You're delusional," she spits, clutching the violin case closer. "I'd rather sleep on the floor."
"And ruin your pretty poise? How would you play that violin then?" I step closer, watching her tense. "What would happen to those delicate joints if you slept on hardwood all night?"
Her jaw clenches. She knows I'm right, but she's too stubborn to admit it.
"Fine. You take the floor then," she says, lifting her chin.
I laugh, genuinely entertained by her audacity. "You think I'm sleeping on my own fucking floor while you take my bed?"
"I think you're the one who kidnapped me, so yes."
For a moment, we just stare at each other, locked in a silent battle of wills. Most people would have broken eye contact by now, intimidated by my presence. Not her. Not Evelyn Anderson.
"I'll bring the sofa in," I say, surprising myself with the compromise.
Her eyebrows lift slightly. "What?"
"The sofa. From the living room. I'll bring it in here."
I don't wait for her response, just turn and walk out. The leather sofa isn't heavy, but it's awkward to maneuver through the doorway. When I get it into the bedroom I position it near the window, far enough from the bed to give her space, close enough that I can watch her.
Evelyn sits with her legs crossed now, still holding that damn violin case like it's a shield.
"Why are you doing this?" she asks quietly.
I ignore her question, grabbing a spare pillow and throw blanket from the closet. "Get some sleep."
I stretch out on the sofa, the leather cool against my back. It's too small for my frame, my feet hanging off the edge, but I've slept in worse places. The steady rhythm of Evelyn's breathing fills the room. She's curled on her side, facing away from me, the violin case tucked against her chest like a child's teddy bear.
My body's exhausted but my mind won't shut down. Not with her lying there in my bed, just feet away from me.
Fuck.
I've wanted her since the first time I saw her play. The way her body moved with the music, like she was fucking the air with every stroke of her bow. The control in her fingers, the passion in her eyes—all that discipline and fire wrapped in one delicate package.
I shift on the sofa, my cock hardening at the memory. How many nights have I lain awake thinking about her? How many women have I fucked while imagining it was Evelyn underneath me? Faceless women in hotel rooms, bent over my desk, against the wall of my apartment—all of them just poor substitutes for the woman now lying in my bed.
I close my eyes, picturing what I'd do if I crossed that space between us. I'd start slow, run my hands through that long hair, grip it tight at the base of her skull. I'd make her look at me while I touched her, watch those eyes cloud with pleasure as I slid my fingers between her legs.
I'd take my time. Make her beg for it. Make her admit she wants it just as much as I do.
My jaw clenches as I fight the urge to get up, to go to her, to show her exactly what I've been thinking about all these months. To press her into the mattress and make her scream my name until her voice gives out.
But I don't move.
Because as much as I want to fuck her until neither of us can walk, I need her to come to me. I need her to admit she wants this—wants me—as badly as I want her. I've taken enough from her today. Her freedom. Her safety. Her illusion of control.
I won't take this too. Not yet.
So I lie here, hard and aching, listening to her breathe, knowing she's just out of reach. And I wait.
Because Evelyn Anderson is worth waiting for.