Chapter 17
CHAPTER 17
I stare at Evelyn, watching the last notes of the song hang in the air between us. Something about the way she plays—it's like she's having a fucking conversation with her violin. And I'm just standing here, listening in on something I'm not supposed to hear.
Her eyes meet mine and I see it—that same look from last night. The one that tells me she's fighting herself more than she's fighting me.
I step closer, my body moving before my brain catches up. "Take your clothes off."
She freezes, bow still in hand. "What?"
"You heard me." My voice drops lower. "Take your fucking clothes off. Now."
For a second I think she might tell me to go to hell. But then she sets down her violin—careful, always so fucking careful with it—and starts unbuttoning her shirt. Her fingers tremble slightly but her eyes never leave mine.
The shirt falls. Then her pants. She stands there in just her underwear and I can see her chest rising and falling faster.
I close the distance between us, reaching out to touch her face. She doesn't flinch. Doesn't move away.
"I want to be inside you more than anything right now," I tell her, my voice rough. "You know that?"
She nods, a small movement that sends heat straight through me.
I trail my finger down her neck, across her collarbone, between her breasts, and finally lower. When I reach between her legs I feel the wetness through the thin fabric.
"I knew you'd be wet." I press harder, watching her bite her lip. "I knew it the second I told you to take your clothes off."
A small sound escapes her, something between a gasp and a moan. It's the same sound she made last night when I first touched her. It's a sound that makes me crave to hear it again and again.
"Tell me to stop," I challenge her, my finger still moving against her. "Tell me you don't want this."
Instead of answering she reaches for me, pulling my head down to hers. Her kiss is hungry, desperate—nothing like the controlled woman who stood before me minutes ago.
I knew from the moment I saw her play that there was fire under all that discipline. Now I'm burning in it.
I back her against the wall, my hands gripping her hips hard enough to leave marks. She's clawing at my shirt, trying to get it off me while I'm already working her underwear down her legs.
I lift her and her legs wrap around my waist instantly. She's light—too fucking light—but strong. I can feel the muscles in her thighs from years of standing with that violin.
We barely make it to the bed. I drop her onto the mattress and she bounces once before I'm on top of her, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand.
"You're mine," I tell her, and I don't know if I'm trying to convince her or myself.
Her eyes flash. "No. I'm not."
I grin, loving her defiance even as I want to break it. "We'll see."
I reach for the nightstand drawer and pull out a condom. She watches me tear it open with my teeth, her flesh quivers with her chest rising and falling rapidly. When I roll it onto my solid length, her eyes follow my movements.
"Tell me you want this," I demand.
For a moment she says nothing. Then: "I want this. God help me, I want you."
That's all I need. I push into her in one hard thrust, and she arches beneath me, a cry tearing from her throat. I freeze, buried deep inside her, feeling her body adjust to mine.
"Noah," she says, and my name on her lips sounds like a prayer and a curse all at once.
I start to move, setting a punishing rhythm that has her gasping with each lunge of my pelvis. Her nails dig into my back and I know she's leaving weals. Good. I want them. I want to feel this tomorrow when I'm sitting across from Damiano, discussing war.
"Look at me," I command when her eyes flutter shut.
She opens them and there's something there—something beyond lust, beyond hate.
"That's it," I murmur, slowing my pace just to watch her squirm beneath me. "Stay with me."
I slide my hand between us, finding that spot that makes her whole body tense. I circle it with my thumb as I thrust deeper, harder.
"Noah, I'm—" She cuts off with a moan as her body starts to shake.
"Come for me," I tell her. "Let me feel you come around my cock."
She breaks apart beautifully, her body clenching around mine as she cries out. I keep moving, drawing out her pleasure until she's trembling, until she's begging me to stop and begging me not to stop in the same breath.
Only then do I let myself go, burying my face in her neck as I come with her name on my lips.
I lie beside Evelyn, our bodies still tangled together, sweat cooling on our skin. Her head rests on my chest, her breath evening out. I run my fingers through her hair, letting the silky strands slip between them.
This is dangerous. Not just the situation with Ivan, but this—whatever the fuck is happening between us. I've never brought a woman here. Never wanted one in my space. But with Evelyn, I want her everywhere. In my bed, in my shower, playing that damn violin in my living room.
She shifts against me, her fingertips tracing the tattoo on my ribs. "What did you learn today? About Ivan?"
I stiffen, not wanting to bring that monster into this moment. But she deserves to know what we're facing.
"He sent an ultimatum." My voice sounds rougher than I expected. "Seventy-two hours to hand you over."
Her fingers freeze on my skin. "Or what?"
"Or it's war." I stare at the ceiling, calculating how many men Ivan could mobilize in New York. How many we'd lose if this turns into a bloodbath.
"You should give me to him." Her voice is quiet but steady.
I grab her chin, forcing her to look at me. "That's not happening."
"Why not? It's the logical solution. One person versus how many would die in a war between families?"
"Because he'll hurt you." The words come out harshly. "You haven't seen what Ivan does to people. What he's capable of."
She holds my gaze. "And you're not capable of the same things?"
I don't answer. We both know the truth.
"What happens after seventy-two hours?" she asks.
"We prepare for war." I trail her collarbone with my thumb.
"And what about me?"
"I keep you safe." I pull her closer, breathing in the scent of her hair. "No matter what it takes."
She's quiet for a moment. "People will die because of me."
"No," I correct her. "People will die because Ivan's a power-hungry psychopath who thinks he can take whatever he wants."
I lie against Noah's chest, my body still humming, when my stomach denounces me with an embarrassingly loud growl. The sound breaks through the heavy silence between us.
Noah's chest vibrates with a low chuckle. "Someone's hungry."
I press my face into his shoulder, mortified. "Ignore it."
"Not a chance." He shifts beneath me, gently moving me aside as he sits up. "We need to eat. Can't fight a war on an empty stomach."
The casual mention of war makes my chest constrict. While we've been locked in this strange tango of attraction and resistance, people are preparing to kill each other. Because of me.
Noah pulls on his pants and reaches for his shirt. I wrap the sheet around myself, suddenly feeling exposed in more ways than one.
"Come on," he says, extending his hand. "Kitchen. Now."
I follow him to the kitchen, pulling on one of his t-shirts that hangs like a dress on my frame.
"We need to find Jessica." The words burst out of me. "She could be in danger—Ivan might use her to get to me."
"I've already told Damiano to locate her."
"You have?" I step closer, hope and fear battling inside me. "When?"
"This morning. His men are looking for her now. We'll find her before Ivan does."
But his confidence doesn't reassure me. I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warmth in the apartment.
I want to believe him but fear has taken root. "You don't know Jessica. She's trusting. Innocent. She has no idea what kind of man Ivan really is."
Noah approaches me. His hands rest on my shoulders, warm and steady.
I search Noah's face for any sign of deception but his eyes remain steady on mine.
"We'll find her," he repeats, more firmly this time. "Trust me on this."
Trust. Such a simple word, yet so impossible in my situation. Still, what choice do I have?
Noah steps away from me and moves to the refrigerator. He pulls out several white containers and places them on the counter.
"I picked these up earlier. Figured we'd need something substantial."
The familiar red dragon logo on the containers makes my stomach growl again. Golden Dragon—my favorite Chinese restaurant in the city.
"Is that..." I step closer, peering at the containers.
"Kung pao chicken, extra spicy. Vegetable dumplings with the ginger dipping sauce. And..." He opens the last container. "Sesame noodles, no green onions."
My mouth falls open. "How did you know?"
"That you hate green onions?" A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Same way I know you take your coffee black, good cream. And that you always order the same sandwich from that little deli on 53rd."
A chill runs down my spine that has nothing to do with hunger. I step back, the momentary comfort evaporating.
"How long?" My voice comes out barely above a whisper. "How long have you been watching me?"
Noah doesn't immediately answer. He methodically sets out plates, his movements deliberate.
"Ten months," he finally says, not looking at me.
"Ten months?" The room seems to tilt. "You've been following me for almost a year?"
I stare at Noah, processing this revelation. Ten months of surveillance. Ten months of him watching my every move without me knowing. The intimacy we just shared suddenly feels tainted.
"Why?" I ask, my voice barely audible. "Why would you follow me for ten months?"
Noah sets down the plates with deliberate care, like he's buying time. When he finally looks up, something in his eyes has changed—a vulnerability I haven't seen before.
"I saw you playing at Damiano's wedding." His voice is low, almost reluctant. "Something happened when I heard you play. It was like..." He pauses, searching for words. "Like something that had been frozen inside me started to thaw."
I wrap my arms tighter around myself, unsure how to respond.
"After that I couldn't stop thinking about you. Your music. The way you moved with the violin." He shakes his head slightly. "I got obsessed."
"That's..." I swallow hard, stepping back. "That's actually really awkward, Noah. Following someone for months without their knowledge? That's what serial killers do. They stalk their victims before they?—"
"If I wanted you dead," he cuts in, his voice suddenly sharp, "you would have been dead ten months ago."
The bluntness of his statement hits me like a hammer blow because I know it's true. I've seen what he's capable of. The way he dispatched Ivan's men without hesitation.
"That's not exactly comforting," I say.
Noah pushes a plate toward me. "Eat. We both need to keep our strength up."
I take the plate but don't move to fill it. "You can't just drop something like that and then change the subject."
"What do you want me to say, Evelyn?" There's an edge to his voice now. "That I'm sorry? I'm not. Watching you kept you safe. And now it's keeping you alive."
"Why didn't you just talk to me?" I ask, my voice smaller than I like. "If you were so... interested, why follow me for months instead of just introducing yourself?"
Noah looks at me for a long moment, then something unexpected happens. He laughs. Not his usual controlled chuckle but an actual laugh that transforms his face, making him look younger, almost innocent.
"You think I could have just walked up to you at some fancy event and bought you a drink?" His eyes crinkle at the corners. "Look at me, Evelyn."
I do look at him—the hard lines of his face, the intensity in his eyes, the tattoos peeking from beneath his shirt collar, the casual way he carries himself like violence is just beneath the surface.
"People see me and they get scared," he continues, his amusement fading. "They should. I'm not the kind of man who mingles at charity galas or makes small talk about the weather. I'm the kind of man people cross the street to avoid."
I want to deny it, but I can't. The first time I saw Noah I felt that instinctive flutter of fear—the primal recognition of danger.
"The high-society violinist and the cartel enforcer," he says, shaking his head. "What would you have done if I'd approached you, offered you champagne and tried to charm you?"
"I might have given you a chance," I say, though even as the words leave my mouth I'm not sure they're true.
Noah's expression tells me he doesn't believe me either. "No, you wouldn't have. You would have smiled politely, made an excuse, and walked away. And you would have been smart to do so."
There's no bitterness in his voice, just a matter-of-fact acceptance that makes my chest ache unexpectedly.
"You don't know that," I insist, though part of me wonders why I'm arguing this point.
"I know exactly who I am, Evelyn," he says quietly. "And before all this, you were living in a different world. A safer one."
I stare at Noah, the realization hitting me like a cold slap. "So instead you planned to kidnap me and make me sleep with you?" The words come out harsher than I mean, bitter and accusing.
Noah's expression transforms instantly. The softness vanishes, replaced by something dark and dangerous. His jaw tightens as he steps back from the counter, putting distance between us.
"Is that what you think happened?" His voice drops to that deadly quiet tone that makes my skin prickle. "That I forced you?"
"You kidnapped me," I say, but my voice wavers. "You brought me here against my will and?—"
"And what?" He cuts me off, eyes flashing. "Did I force myself on you, Evelyn? Did I make you do anything you didn't want to do?"
I open my mouth, then close it again. The truth is uncomfortable.
"I have done many unforgivable things in my life," Noah says, each word precise and controlled. "But I would never—never—force a woman. Not for anything."
The conviction in his voice makes me believe him, and shame washes over me. Because he's right. Whatever else Noah has done, he never forced himself on me. Even when I was completely at his mercy, he kept his distance until I came to him.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, looking down at my hands. "That was unfair. You didn't... you didn't force me."
When I look up Noah's expression has changed again. The anger is gone, replaced by something that looks almost like self-loathing.
"Maybe I should have stayed away from you altogether," he says quietly. "I shouldn't have touched you. Not while you're here like this."
I watch as he turns away, running a hand through his hair in frustration. Despite everything, I feel a strange urge to comfort him.
"Noah," I say softly. "You've kept me safe. You're still keeping me safe."
It's a strange realization—that despite being his captive I do feel protected. With Ivan hunting me, Noah's apartment might be the safest place in New York right now.
"That doesn't make what happened right," he says, not looking at me. "You're here because I took you. Because I wouldn't let you go."
I can see it now—he blames himself. For all his dangerous confidence, Noah is wrestling with guilt over what happened between us.
And I hate myself for that.