Chapter 8
CHAPTER 8
I didn't plan to act like such an asshole. But watching her try to escape—watching her desperation—it does something to me. Makes me want to push. Makes me want to see how far I can take this before she breaks.
Her face flushes red with anger and embarrassment as I stand before her, half-naked and unashamed. The towel sits low on my hips and I can see her eyes dart down before she forces them back to my face.
"You're disgusting," she spits.
"And you're lying." I step closer, watching her retreat until her back hits the wall. "To yourself most of all."
I shouldn't enjoy this—the way her chest rises and falls with quick, angry breaths. The way her eyes flash with defiance even as her body betrays her. But I do. God help me, I fucking do.
"You know what?" I say, my voice dropping lower. "If you want to leave so badly, all you have to do is ask."
Her eyes widen with hope, and something inside me twists with guilt. But I crush it down. Hope is dangerous for her right now.
"Really?" she asks.
I lean in, close enough to see the flecks of darker blue in her eyes. "Just ask, Evelyn. Ask me nicely if you can leave."
She swallows hard. "Can I leave?"
I smile, slow and deliberate. "No."
The hope in her eyes dies, replaced by pure hatred. It shouldn't be beautiful, but it is.
"You're a monster," she says, each word like ice.
"I never claimed to be anything else." I step back, giving her space to breathe. "But I'm the monster keeping you alive right now."
She pushes past me, her shoulder deliberately knocking into mine as she crosses the room. She sits down on the edge of the bed, her hands gripping the mattress so tightly her knuckles turn white.
"I hate you," she says, her voice tight with frustration.
"That's fine." I turn away, reaching for clothes in my dresser. "Hate keeps people sharp. Keeps them alive."
When I turn back, she's staring at the floor, her shoulders slumped in defeat. It's not a good look on her. Makes something in my chest ache in a way I don't recognize.
"Evelyn," I say, softer than I intended.
She doesn't look up.
I watch her slumped shoulders, the hopelessness in her posture. It doesn't suit her. The violinist I've been watching for months is fire and steel wrapped in silk. This broken thing before me isn't what I wanted.
"My whole fucking life," she says suddenly, her voice low but razor-sharp. She looks up at me, those stormy blue eyes tempestuous. "My whole life, men have decided what's best for me."
I stay silent. Let her talk. Let her get it out.
"First my father." She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Every note I played, every school I attended, every boy I wasn't allowed to date. He controlled everything."
She stands up, pacing now, her hands cutting through the air as she speaks.
"Then Ivan. With his contracts and his promises and his fucking lies." Her voice cracks. "And now you. Another man who thinks he knows what's better for me than I do."
I lean against the dresser, arms crossed. "This isn't about?—"
"Do you know what it feels like?" She cuts me off, stepping closer. "To be completely fucking useless in your own life? To watch everyone else make your decisions while you just... exist?"
Something in her words hits too close. Reminds me of being ten years old, watching my father stand over my mother's body, unable to do anything but breathe.
"I'm not trying to control your life," I say, keeping my voice even.
"No?" She laughs again, bitter and cold. "Then what would you call this? Kidnapping? Imprisonment?"
"Protection." I push off from the dresser, closing the distance between us. "Ivan would've done worse than lock you in a penthouse, Evelyn. Much worse."
"So I should be grateful?" She doesn't back down, tilts her chin up to hold my gaze. "Thank you, Noah, for being a slightly better option than a monster."
"I don't want your gratitude." I reach out, almost touch her face, but then drop my hand. "I just want you alive."
"For how long?" she asks, quieter now. "How long am I your prisoner?"
"Until we handle Ivan." The words come out before I can think them through. "After that... I'll let you go. You can go back to your life, your music. Pretend none of this ever happened."
She studies my face, looking for the lie. "You promise?"
"Yes." The word tastes like nightshade in my mouth. I've never been good at letting go of things that belong to me. And in my mind, she already does.
But that's a problem for another day.
I wait for her anger to rise again, for her to call me a liar. Instead she sighs, her shoulders relaxing slightly.
"Okay," she says, crossing her arms. "Now give me something to eat."
I raise an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." She tilts her head, something like a challenge in her eyes. "If you insist on keeping me alive, you need to feed me. I haven't eaten since yesterday afternoon, before the Feretti event."
For a moment I just stare at her. Then a small laugh escapes me.
"What's so funny?" she demands, but there's less bite in her tone.
"You," I say, shaking my head. "One minute you're calling me a monster, the next you're demanding breakfast."
"Well, you're a bad captor if you let me starve to death." She shrugs, and I catch the ghost of a smile on her lips. "Kidnapping 101, Rivera. Keep your victim nourished."
"Is that so?" I move toward the door, gesturing for her to follow. "And what else does Kidnapping 101 teach?"
She follows me into the kitchen, keeping a careful distance. "Decent clothes would be nice. Something that actually fits."
I glance at her swimming in my T-shirt, the hem reaching almost to her knees. Something possessive stirs in me at the sight.
"I don't know," I say, opening the refrigerator. "I think you look good in my clothes."
She rolls her eyes but the flush creeping up her neck betrays her. "You would."
I pull out eggs, bacon, bread. "Coffee?"
"God, yes." She slides onto a barstool at the kitchen island, watching me with wary curiosity. "I didn't expect you to cook."
"What did you expect? That I'd call for room service?"
"I thought maybe you had people for that. Minions or whatever."
I crack eggs into a bowl. "Sorry to disappoint. Just me."
"And Matteo," she adds.
"Matteo isn't my minion." I glance at her. "He's more like... an annoying brother I never wanted."
That earns me another almost-smile. "So you do have relationships. I was beginning to wonder if you were just a robot, programmed to kidnap musicians."
"Only the pretty ones," I say before I can stop myself.
Her eyes widen slightly and for a while neither of us speaks. I turn back to the stove, focusing on the eggs instead of the way her lips parted in surprise.
"How do you like your coffee?" I ask, changing the subject.
"Black," she says. "Like your soul."
This time I laugh out loud, surprising both of us. "Careful, Evelyn. That almost sounded like you have a sense of humor."
"Don't get used to it," she says, but there's something lighter in her voice now. "I still hate you."
"Noted." I slide a mug of coffee across to her. "Drink your hate-fuel."
I push the empty plate away, my stomach finally satisfied despite the chaos of my situation. The eggs were perfect—I hate that I have to admit it. Noah leans against the counter, his dark eyes tracking my every move like I'm the prey he's still deciding how to devour.
"Play for me."
The words hang in the air between us. I look up, mug frozen halfway to my mouth with the last sip of coffee.
"What?"
"Your violin." Noah nods toward the case I've kept within arm's reach since arriving. "I want to hear you play."
A strange feeling washes over me—not fear exactly, but something deeper. More intimate. The thought of playing for him, here in this prison of luxury, feels wrong. My violin is mine. The one thing that truly belonged to me, even when my father dictated every other aspect of my life.
"No." The word comes out firmer than I expect.
Noah's eyebrow rises slightly. "No?"
"I'm not a circus animal that performs on command." I set the cup down with a clunk. "You kidnapped me. You don't get to demand a private concert."
He crosses his arms, muscles shifting under his shirt. "I've heard you play before."
"That was different."
"How?"
"I was being paid." The lie feels weak even to my ears.
Noah's mouth quirks up at one corner. "I can pay you."
"That's not—" I stop, frustrated. "You don't understand. Playing is personal."
He pushes off from the counter and walks toward me. I resist the urge to back away.
"Then help me understand, Evelyn." My name in his mouth sounds different—dangerous. "What makes it so fucking personal that you'll play for a room full of strangers but not for me?"
The question hits closer to home than I want to admit. I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warm kitchen.
"When I play for an audience I'm performing a role. It's... a transaction." I struggle to find the right words. "But playing just for one person is different. It's like... letting someone see inside me."
Noah's eyes darken. "And you don't want me seeing inside you."
It's not a question but I answer anyway.
"No. I don't."
The silence stretches between us, taut as a violin string. His gaze drops to my lips for just a moment before returning to my eyes.
"One day you'll play for me, Evelyn." His voice is soft but certain. "And it won't be because I forced you."
I hate the sparkle that runs down my spine at his words.
I stand from the island counter, needing to put distance between us. Noah's presence fills every inch of this apartment, suffocating me even in this spacious kitchen.
"You seem pretty confident for someone who kidnapped a woman less than twelve hours ago," I say, trying to regain some control.
Noah follows me into the living room, his footsteps silent on the marble floor. How does someone so large move so quietly?
"It's not kidnapping. It's protection." His voice carries that infuriating calm. "And yes, I am confident you'll play for me. I'm a patient man."
I spin around. "Patient? You literally dragged me from my car last night."
"Some situations require immediate action." He shrugs, leaning against the doorframe. "Others... benefit from waiting."
The way his eyes travel down my body makes my skin heat. I hate this reaction I have to him. Hate how my body denounces me.
"Do you always stare at women like they're something to eat?" I snap.
A slow smile spreads across his face. "Only the ones I find appetizing."
"You're disgusting."
"And yet..." He slides closer. "Your pupils dilate when I get near you. Your breathing changes. Your pulse—" He reaches for my wrist but I jerk it away.
"Don't touch me."
"I don't need to touch you to know what you're feeling, Evelyn." My name sounds like a caress in his mouth. "Your body gives you away."
"My body is responding to fear," I lie.
Noah laughs, the sound unexpectedly rich. "Fear doesn't make your cheeks flush like that. It doesn't make you lick your lips when you think I'm not looking."
"I do not?—"
"You just did it again." His smile widens.
I want to slap that smug look off his face. Instead I march past him toward the bedroom, the only place I might find a moment's peace.
"Running away?" he calls after me.
"From you? Absolutely."
I hear him chuckle behind me. "You can run. But there's nowhere to hide in my apartment."
I whirl around, finding him closer than I expected. "Do you practice these lines in the mirror? Or do they come naturally to all kidnappers?"
Something dangerous flashes in his eyes, but his voice remains playful. "Special talent. I save my best material for the beautiful ones."
"I'm flattered," I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "Now leave me alone."
"This is my apartment."
"And I'm your unwilling guest, so show some manners."
Noah steps closer, invading my space. "I showed manners by cooking you breakfast."
"Congratulations on meeting the bare minimum of human decency."
We're standing so close I can smell his cologne that makes my head swim. His eyes drop to my lips again and for one terrifying instant I think he might kiss me.
More terrifying: I might let him.
I back away quickly, turning toward the bedroom. "I need space."
"Whatever you need, Evelyn," he says, his voice a low rumble that follows me down the hall.
I reach the bedroom and slam the door behind me, the sound echoing through the apartment like a gunshot.
Noah's laughter follows me like a ghost. The sound crawls under my skin, making me want to scream into one of his down pillows. But I won't give him that satisfaction.
I pace the room instead, my hands balled into fists. My violin case sits on the bed where I left it, the only familiar thing in this beautiful prison. I run my fingers over the worn leather, finding comfort in its texture.
"Breathe, Evelyn," I say to myself. "Just breathe."
But my lungs feel constricted, and not just from fear. It's him. The way he looks at me like he can see right through me. The way his voice drops when he says my name. The way his presence fills a room even after he's left it.
I press my forehead against the cool windowpane, looking out at the New York skyline. Somewhere out there Jessica is probably worried sick. My father is probably furious that I missed whatever performance he scheduled without telling me. And Ivan... I shudder thinking about what would have happened if his men had succeeded.
Noah's right about one thing—Ivan is dangerous. But trading one captor for another isn't freedom.
I hear Noah moving around in the living room, the soft sounds of someone completely at ease in their environment. How can he be so calm when he's turned both our lives upside down?
My reflection stares back at me from the window—hair still damp from this morning's shower, wearing clothes that aren't mine, in an apartment I never chose to enter. Yet beneath the obvious distress in my eyes, there's something else. Something I don't want to acknowledge.
Attraction.
I close my eyes, disgusted with myself. Stockholm syndrome, that's what this is. A psychological response. It doesn't mean anything.
But when I picture Noah's dark eyes, the curve of his mouth when he almost-smiles, the way his hands move confidently while cooking breakfast... my body responds in ways my mind protests against.
"Stop it," I hiss at myself, pushing away from the window.
I need to focus on escape, not on the man keeping me here. No matter how he makes my pulse race. No matter how safe I felt falling asleep knowing he was watching over me.
That's the most dangerous thought of all—the idea that I might be safer with Noah than without him.
I grab my violin case and hold it tight against my chest. I won't play for him. I can't. Music has always been my sanctuary, the one place where I'm truly free. If I share that with Noah, what will I have left that's just mine?