Chapter 17
Sharing a room with a killer who just shoved a gun to the back of my head?
I’d rather have him take a toe.
I’ve now learned I make a better prisoner than escapee. Both attempts I’ve failed miserably. Though neither time was I given much of an opportunity for a plan.
After the first try, I told myself I wouldn’t make another run until I was prepared. But Dasha sounded desperate when she called me, begging me for money and saying she needed it by tonight.
I did what any sister would do. I said fuck it and ran to help her.
Emilio easily found me in the woods, which means I need to search my purse for a tracker. Hell, at this point, he could’ve snuck into my bedroom in the middle of the night and implanted one in my body.
I groan when he pulls me up from the chair.
“What the—” I attempt to wrangle free from his hold as he drags me from the bedroom and down the hallway.
Geesh.
He should just hook me to a leash the way he likes to jerk and drag me around.
When we reach my bedroom, he releases me. “Grab your pajamas, toothbrush, whatever you need for tonight.”
I cross my arms, not moving. “What if I don’t want to sleep in your room?”
“What if I don’t give a fuck?” He moves closer, causing me to stumble backward. “The more you misbehave, the more I feel like locking you in this bedroom and throwing away the key.” He thrusts out his arms to push me toward the dresser. “Now, get your stuff.”
I catch myself before falling. “What if I sleep naked?” My mouth slams shut the second the last word leaves my mouth. I hold back the urge to face-palm myself at my stupid comment.
I whip around on my heel and hurriedly collect my pajamas and robe from my packed suitcase and scramble to the bathroom for my toothbrush. As I leave the bathroom, I glance at the window, another escape plan coming to mind.
You are no Harry Houdini, Liliya.
Plus, you’re supposed to unalive this man.
Emilio makes a show of tapping his foot at my slowness.
I shove my pajamas beneath my armpit, stick my toothbrush in my pocket, and stomp toward him. When I reach him, I expect him to snatch me up like a rag doll again.
Instead, he retreats a step, signaling for me to go ahead.
As I pass, I peer over my shoulder and catch him checking out my ass.
To further mess with him, I sway my hips from side to side.
I’m playing with fire, doing this.
No, I’m playing with death.
When we return to the bedroom, I try to grab my phone from the floor. Emilio returns to his wrangler-self and snatches it from my hand, throwing it farther out of my reach. He snaps his long fingers before making a gesture toward the bathroom.
I trail behind him like an obedient dog, stepping into the bathroom. The layout is nearly identical to mine with a double vanity, the granite top outdated but still beautiful, and a glass shower. Except this bathroom has a claw-foot tub, which mine doesn’t.
My focus is on taking in the space, so I don’t even process Emilio being Emilio.
One second, his back is turned to me. And the next, his hand clamps around my arm, and he drags me toward the radiator against the wall. My pajamas fall from my hold during the scramble.
Something cold and heavy snaps around my wrist.
Click.
My arm jerks down, suddenly weighted.
“What the hell?” I twist my wrist instinctively, trying to tear away from him.
Did this asshole seriously handcuff me to the radiator?
I tug at the cuffs, rattle the chain, try to wedge my finger into the lock, but nothing works.
“I need to shower,” Emilio says, casually retreating a step, as if cuffing people to things is the norm for him. “You stand or sit there and be a good girl.”
Be a good girl?
Chills roll up my spine.
His saying that shouldn’t cause tingles to shoot between my legs.
He empties his pockets, including his gun, walks into the closet, and I hear a safe open and close.
When he returns, I watch him, slack-jawed, as he unbuttons his shirt. Mud is smeared along the right side.
There’s no stopping my lips from forming a smirk. I’m the result of the mud. My run might not have gone successfully, but at least it messed up his designer shirt.
I gulp.
Change the subject, Liliya.
Stop him from stripping.
Because Lord knows, if that shirt falls from his body, revealing his chest, I’ll go from wanting to run for the hills to wanting to run straight into his arms to touch every inch of him.
This has never been me—a woman lusting over a man at just the sight of him.
His shirt drops to the floor. His stomach is all muscles and a six-pack. A single tattoo runs up his side.
The handcuff clinks against the radiator as I try to move closer and get a better look, but he’s too far away.
He stretches inside the shower to turn on the water.
I tug at the handcuffs again.
“I wouldn’t waste my energy doing that if I were you,” Emilio says dryly.
His stank attitude reminds me that he isn’t a man nice enough to be eye-fucked.
Killers should be feared, not desired.
He unbuckles his pants, acting as if he doesn’t notice me gawking as he slides them off. He’s not undressing striptease-style. More along the lines of a man just wanting to shower and get clean.
He might not be trying to look sexy, but he is.
Sex appeal just oozes off him.
“You’d think you’d let me shower first,” I spit, trying to get my mind on something else. “I am the dirtier one, given you tackled me to the ground. It’d be the gentlemanly thing to do.”
His eyes, cold and unreadable, pin on me. “Have I not made it clear that I’m no gentleman?” He pushes down his pants, revealing his boxer briefs. “It’s also your own fault that you’re dirtier. Haven’t you learned that most escapees are always caught?”
“Am I just supposed to sit here and watch you shower?”
He turns to open a cabinet and pulls out a towel and a washcloth. “You don’t have to watch me. You can no longer run free, nor do I trust you. Now, you get to wear handcuffs. This is your own doing, Liliya.”
I try to raise my arm to flip him off and obviously fail.
“You can shower after I’m finished or join me.”
“Do the handcuffs stay on if I join you?”
He pauses, thinking about it for a moment, and without replying, he drops his briefs.
I rear back, gulping, but he doesn’t give me much time to admire him before stepping into the shower. The glass steams, but I can make out his silhouette through the door. I sigh, slumping down against the radiator, and the reminder that I need to murder this man hits me.
Glancing around, I look for something to use as a weapon.
Well, first, I need something to pick this lock and then a weapon.
I pull my toothbrush from my pocket, turning it in my hand and wishing it’d morph into a knife.
Even if it did, do I even have the balls to kill him?
Knowing me, like everything else I’ve done so far, I’ll fail.
Then, he’ll kill me.
Positive that killing him isn’t in my plans for tonight, I turn my focus back to the shower.
I can’t kill him right now. So might as well enjoy the view.
I lick my lips, unable to tear my eyes away as the muscles in his arms tense while he washes his hair. It’s like I’m in some daze, and I feel like a total creep that my mouth is practically salivating for him.
I’m so wrapped up in him that I’m not sure how much time passes before he turns off the water. He steps out of the shower and tugs the towel off the hook, and I pretend to block my eyes from the view, peeking through my fingers.
I perk up, telling myself this isn’t ogling. This is surveillance.
I’m studying my target for weak areas.
Though one weak area is definitely not what’s between his legs.
Holy shit.
Even with his cock not fully erect, he’s huge.
The longer I stare, the harder and thicker it gets.
He knows I’m checking him out.
I’m a wife, attracted to her husband; that’s not out of the ordinary.
The problem is, my husband is crazy, and we want to kill each other.
He hurriedly dries off and ties the towel around his waist. “Your turn.”
I jerk my arm up. “I can’t exactly shower with cuffs on.”
He grabs his pants from the floor and pulls a key from the pocket. Taking two long strides in my direction, he kneels in front of me and unlocks the handcuff. I dramatically shake out my hand and rub it like it’s in pain.
As I stand, he does the same, taking a step back to give me room to walk around him. He backs up against the door, as if blocking it, as I turn on the shower.
Crossing my arms, I glare at him. “Do you plan to stay in here and watch me?”
“You watched me,” he fires back.
“Is that you giving me permission to handcuff you to the radiator as well?”
He motions for me to get in the shower. “I’ll get dressed while you shower. Don’t worry, I won’t eye fuck you like you did me.”
“That wasn’t eye fucking. That was murder glaring for being held captive.”
I swear, for a moment, I notice him fighting back a smile, like the idea of me killing him is hilarious. He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, but doesn’t move from his spot blocking the door.
With a groan, I turn off the shower, step inside to undress, and throw my clothes out.
The water is already steaming hot when I turn it back on.
I jump and shriek when the door opens.
“Forgot this.” Emilio throws a washcloth inside, and it smacks me in the face. He shuts the door.
I take my sweet time in the shower but also keep my eyes on my surroundings. I watch his profile move around the bathroom, but he never lingers too close. When I’m finished, I open the door.
He holds out a towel for me, and when I step out of the shower, I notice he’s changed into gray sweats and a white V-neck tee. It’s the first time I’ve seen him casual. As I dry off, he walks to the vanity and starts brushing his teeth.
I keep the towel tight around me as I snatch my pajamas and bring them back into the shower, not caring that the bottom of my pants gets wet. When I step out, he doesn’t pay me any attention as I join him at the vanity.
My side brushes against his, but he doesn’t move.