6. SCARLET
The next morning…
Warmth. Comfort. Safety.
My mind drifts between dreams and reality, wrapped in a heat that feels almost protective, like a cocoon against the horrors of the past two days. The mattress is heaven, the comforter is just right, and the pillow cradles my head like it was made for me.
But none of it compares to the body beside me. Solid. Powerful. Giving off more heat than the comforter ever could.
I don’t want to wake up. I don’t want this dream to end. Until something thick and hard presses against my ass.
My eyes fly open . I don't recognize the room I'm in or the oversized four-panel bed. Long, wide, thick off-white curtains are closed, not allowing a ray of light in, if there is any on the other side—I have no idea if it is day or night.
Warm light from a lamp by a comfy-looking sitting corner illuminates the room enough for me to make out a fireplace framed by bookshelves stacked floor to ceiling with leatherbound hardbacks.
That's as far as my eyes go, before reality kicks in with a vengeance.
Everything comes crashing back to me, my abduction, the days of hell hanging from the ceiling, the accountant lookalike who cut my back open.
All that flashes by me in the blink of an eye.
Time stands still when I remember a large, fearsome, powerful man.
I remember arms holding me, cradling me.
Antonio! Antonio fucking DeLuna! A mobster, just like the men who abducted me.
This has to be his room. And if this is his room, then the man in this bed must be… him!
An adrenaline surge hits me, and I jump out of bed. Unfortunately, the adrenaline rush isn't enough to keep me on my feet, and my knees buckle underneath me. My arms flail, looking for purchase, and find a long, metal rod. I grab hold of it, only to take it down with me.
"What the fuck? Scarlet?"
I can't see the bed, but I feel his presence as he rolls down it behind me. A set of feet comes into view, topped by strong calves. He bends down and reaches my field of vision. "Are you alright? What happened?"
He takes my hand to help me up, but my legs feel like those of a newborn colt. I don't have the strength to get up, not even with his help. He picks me up and deposits me back on the bed.
"Scarlet?"
Green eyes probe me. The corners are creased with concern.
Against my will, my gaze roams his body, the impossible wide set of his shoulders, hard pecs over chiseled muscles…
oh shit, he's naked . Before I can stop myself, my eyes keep moving down the powerful six pack of his abdomen, and lower, toward…
I swallow… a huge erection. My gaze lingers just a heartbeat too long before I force it back up, past a square jaw, with, yes, a perfect dimple in the center, up to his thick lips, which are currently carved into a sardonic, knowing smile.
He knows where my eyes went. And he's enjoying it.
I try to pull together what dignity I can muster, which isn't a lot, especially not with the heat rising to my face, which I'm sure is beet red by now. "What… why am I here?"
"I brought you here last night, don't you remember?"
Finally, some part of my dignity makes a small comeback. "I do, but I mean, why am I here and not at my apartment or my father's house?"
Unperturbed about his nakedness or his erection, he sits down right next to me on the bed. I won't look, I won't look, I won't lo—shit, I just did. Fuck !
"You keep staring," he muses. "You like what you see?" He leans back, actually leans back, like a fucking king on his throne, to give me a better view.
A new wave of heat rushes to my face. "It's hard not to…" shit. I said hard .
His lips curve in amusement. Bastard. He's enjoying this way too much. And my mind is still too jumbled to fully comprehend anything or to come up with a decent retort.
"Would you mind putting some clothes on?" I finally manage.
"I would actually." His grin deepens.
"Well?" I nudge.
"Well, what?"
With a sigh, I settle on, "Why am I here?" I’m aware that I'm fighting a losing battle about his clothes.
"It's safer," he replies, getting off the bed. “It's also more convenient, and it will keep your father in line."
There it is.
I may not be in a basement anymore. I may not be tied up, cut open, or hanging from a ceiling like a slaughtered animal, but I’m still a prisoner.
I only switched wardens.
"Can I… can I talk to him? Please?" I hate myself for adding the last part, for pleading, but I really, really would like to talk to my dad.
"Of course," he replies, moving toward the bathroom.
Giving me a full view of his naked backside, which is just as sexy as his front. Not that I'm looking. I'm too busy stopping my heart from jumping out of my chest because he said yes.
From the other side, in the bathroom, I hear the telltale sign of a man relieving his bladder. Wait, is that even possible with a hardon? And why would I even care right now?
Oh, maybe because it reminds me that my bladder is pretty full, too.
Carefully, I slip my legs over the mattress' edge.
I haven't forgotten how weak my knees are, but hopefully, they have regained some strength.
I put my arms on the bed to distribute my weight better.
I should be able to make it to the end of the bed like this.
Slowly, I shuffle one foot in front of the other, while keeping a tight hold of the mattress.
I'm so close, almost there, when something tugs on my arm, startling me so badly, I nearly cry out.
With a loud clang, the same pole I held on to earlier falls to the ground, and I realize that it's attached to me via an IV line that’s running from the top of my hand all the way up to a half-empty bag of something.
That's also when I notice that I'm wearing an oversized shirt that must undoubtedly belong to Antonio.
"Scarlet!"
Impossibly fast, Antonio comes rushing out of the bathroom. He sees me, half on the bed, the IV pole on the ground, and reaches my side just as my legs are about to give out for the second time. His arm slings around my waist, stopping me from hitting the ground again.
"You shouldn't be up," he chastises.
"I need to go pee." The words are out before I can stop them. God, please tell me I didn't just say that.
But he doesn't bat an eye. "Alright, let me help you."
The grip of his arm around my waist intensifies; with his other hand, he grabs the IV pole. "Ready?"
I'm not, but what choice do I have? My feet barely reach the ground; he's supporting my full weight as we slowly shuffle toward the bathroom.
"This won't do," he mutters, frustrated with our slow progress. We've only gone a few steps, and already, sweat drips down my back. He releases the pole and bends over. His free arm slips under my knees, and once again, he effortlessly pulls me up against his chest.
With my ear so close, I can hear the hard ka-thumb, ka-thumb of his heart. The skin where he touches me prickles as low currents of electricity zap through me. Which it shouldn't. It really, really shouldn't. He's a mafia guy. He's holding me captive. He's a dangerous man. Very, very dangerous!
Then why am I feeling so safe ?
Because you're doped out on morphine , something resembling rationality returns.
Hmm, I think I could get addicted to both. Him and the morphine, my mind giggles.
His masculine scent embraces me just like his arms. It smells of almonds, wood, and his very own spice.
It's nearly intoxicating, and I'm not sure if my head is getting woozy from my ordeal or his closeness.
And why the hell am I having these thoughts?
He's my captor! He is keeping me here against my will.
To keep you safe , the same voice as before whispers.
Right, and the devil raises lambs . I shake my head.
The real question though is, why am I so fucking attracted to him?
Let's say he is only keeping me safe ; he's still a criminal, a cold-blooded killer.
He is still a mafia boss. He is everything my dad stands against. Everything I was taught to despise.
To that, my little voice remains suspiciously quiet, and just when I think I won that little battle, it pipes back up, an extremely sexy, handsome criminal and killer .
The object of my musings pushes the pole forward with his foot, and we make our way to the bathroom. There, he deposits me on the toilet after opening the lid, also with his foot—an athletic move that totally belies his massive, muscular form.
I'm still in awe at how he is holding me while standing on one leg. Otherwise, I would have been mortified.
"Call me when you're done or if you need anything," he says and leaves the bathroom, closing the door until it's only slightly ajar.
Business, right , I remind myself. I start by pulling my panties down, or at least attempting to, because… I'm not wearing any panties! I'm wearing a man's oversized shirt— his shirt—and nothing else!
My hair is still damp and has been put into a braid. I sniff my armpits… almond and wood. Unfuckingbelievable! He must have bathed me last night while I was out.
He saw me naked!
I squeeze my eyes shut, while heat rushes to my face. He saw me, touched me, and bathed me like I was some helpless, broken thing. And worst of all? I had no say in it. No control.
Antonio DeLuna—a man feared by the entire underworld—took my clothes off, lifted me into his arms, and washed my body with his own hands.
Another thought shoots through me like a lightning bolt.
What else did he do while I was out? It doesn't burn when I pee, nor do I feel the telltale tightness I usually experience after sex, so I suppose he didn't touch me that way .
But he bathed me. Washed my hair.
That's a total violation, right?
He hasn’t strung me up. He hasn't cut me or hurt me in any way. Instead, he called a doctor, patched me up, let me sleep in his bed, and cut his shirt for me.
Ah shit, why does this man have to be so complicated? I want to dislike him, but he's making it impossible.
As if he has me on radar, there is a knock on the door the moment I'm done.
"Are you okay?" Antonio calls from the other side of the door, reminding me that I've been sitting here musing for too long.
"I'm… just a minute," I call back, closing my eyes.
He enters, "What's wrong?"
Heat rushes to my face. It's not like he can see anything since the shirt covers me, but I'm still sitting on the damn toilet.
"I'm… I need to brush my teeth." Coward !
Hey, I'm not gonna lay into a mafia guy. Let me get a feel for the land first, I defend myself against myself.
He helps me off the toilet just to deposit me on the sink.
I wash my hands as he pulls out a brand-new toothbrush from a drawer, unwraps it, and hands it to me with toothpaste and a cup.
I brush my teeth while he watches me through the mirror with an intensity that sends goosebumps down my spine.
When I'm done with my teeth, I channel my bravery. "So, you said I can call my dad?"
"Yes, let's get you back into the bedroom first."
He picks me up like a bride and carries me back into the bedroom one more time. I really, really shouldn't enjoy his strong arms around me. I tell myself it's just business for him—I'm just business. But he saved my life—something I haven't really addressed yet.
"I haven’t thanked you yet… for saving me."
His green eyes flick to mine, and they're unreadable. It’s like he’s measuring the weight of my words before deciding if they matter.
"No need to thank me." His voice is quiet, but firm. "Your father is the one who owes me."
A chill ripples down my spine at his admission. Of course. I'm just business . But I don't understand why it bothers me so much.