10. Isabella
ISABELLA
“I’ve got it.”
I drift in and out of sleep, catching the tail end of voices as I’m lifted in the air again. This time, I know it’s Roman and the smell of my prison— his home.
Why did I bother going through the whole slew of getting into old overalls, hiding inside a barrel, getting tossed and turned, banging my head against the metal floor of the back of the van, if I was just going to end up back where I started?
It’s unfair.
It’s so…
What is that smell?
Hints of jasmine and lemon fill the air, and I hear the faint sound of water running in the background.
Water? I open my eyes as Roman kicks open a door, surprised to see we’re in a bathroom. And it’s not mine either.
“Where am I?” I ask.
“Bathroom,” he says as he places me on my feet.
“I know that,” I say. But I didn’t feel him climbing the stairs, which means we’re on the first floor. There are only two bathrooms on the first floor, one not in use and the other—I gasp. “Your room?!”
He shrugs like the detail makes no difference. “Yes.”
“Wh—why would you bring me here?” I question, taking a step forward with the intent of leaving. He stops me. Not with his arms wide open, like a barricade, but the mere presence of him standing in front of the door blocks most of the gateway.
Roman tilts his head, a lazy, floating smile on his lips. “Why else?”
“Why else?” My voice is shrill as panic sets in.
Sex? He’s going to have his way with me, isn’t he? I mean, he talked about it. He said it would happen, and I bragged about how unaffected I was. Called him big and strong and said he could take charge. And he brought me here, to his bathroom. With a whole freaking bath ready.
If that’s not taking charge and making me eat my words, I don’t know what is.
And the way he’s looking at me…his deep blue eyes raking over my body shamelessly, makes my damp clothes wet again. I feel soaked to the bone, but not from the rain or cold.
It’s heat—wet, heavy, body-sucking, nerve-racking heat. It breaks down my resolve, building a puddle of need in its wake.
“I don’t want to.” I shake my head with as much firmness as I can muster, although my voice is merely a whisper.
“Don’t want what?” he asks.
Do I have to say it out loud? That I don’t want his hands on me?
But I do—I want him to touch me. Every part of my senses is heightened and filled with his scent. I can see the muscles under his shirt and the stretch of his shoulders.
I know what it feels like to be breathless and helpless under his unabashed, hungry gaze. When I walked out of my bathroom the other day and found him in the bedroom, I felt that split-second throbbing between my thighs before I screamed at him to get out.
But I shouldn’t want him.
I’m his prisoner, and if it hadn’t rained, I would’ve been halfway across the city by now, planning my revenge.
“Take off your clothes, Bella.”
“No.” I cross my arms against my chest. “You might’ve found me, but I won’t let you force yourself on me.”
His brows shoot up, and for a split second, pure confusion slices across his face—before he tosses his head back and laughs. It’s not cruel, but it stings all the same.
“Force myself on you? When you’re two minutes from turning into a corpse from hypothermia?” His voice is dry with exasperation as he gestures toward the steaming tub. “I want you to get in before your lips turn blue.”
Oh.
I glance at the water, suddenly aware of the soft curls of steam rising toward me like beckoning fingers. The heat wraps around my frozen skin even from a distance, and I shiver in response, not from the cold but from realizing how badly I misread him.
“Oh,” I murmur, my voice a whisper of mortification. I bite my lip, then add, quieter still, “I thought?—”
“Clothes. Off.”
He cuts me off before I finish, his tone firm and devoid of patience, leaving no room for explanations or the lingering shame clinging to my spine.
I hesitate, fingers inching toward the damp fabric of the overalls. My hands tremble as I start to peel them off—until I remember he’s still here. Still watching.
Without turning around, I steel myself. “Can you…please leave?”
There’s a beat of silence, followed by the low drag of his voice. “Why? When we do finally have sex, I’m going to see you anyway.” A pause, then— “Besides, I already know you look good naked.”
My heart slams against my ribs. Blood rushes to my face so fast I feel dizzy. I clutch the fabric tighter, fingers fisting in the soaked cotton as I press it to my chest, not daring to move, not daring to breathe.
Because a part of me knows he’s right. I might not be able to say no forever.
Not today, though. I need a slice of victory, something to tide me over from the train wreck I’ve been through. Seconds pass, and I hear the soft creak of the door opening.
And Roman walks out.
My shoulders sag in relief and a little bit of disappointment, but I push away the frustration as I climb into the tub, the water sloshing over the edge.
The bathwater soaks into my bones like a balm, and I sink beneath the surface until it muffles the world, leaving only the slow thrum of my heartbeat. My skin tingles as warmth returns to my limbs. The numbness fades—physically, at least.
I stay in until the water cools, then step out, toweling off with trembling fingers.
Wrapping the towel tightly around my body, I step close to the mirror. My reflection looks horrid, my hair damp and clinging to my cheeks and my eyes swollen.
And I’m reminded, again, that I could’ve died out there. I thought death was better than being held captive, but this just gives me a chance to try again.
Next time, I don’t plan on going in half-assed. Shaking my head to air-dry my hair, I walk out of the bathroom, coming to a screeching halt almost immediately.
Roman is sitting in a chair across the room—legs spread, arms resting loosely on his knees, shirt unbuttoned just enough to show a glimpse of skin. His gaze lifts the moment he sees me.
My breath hitches. “You’re still here.”
He shrugs. “Didn’t say I was leaving.”
He’s right. It’s also his room, but it’s common sense to know that I needed privacy. “You said I needed the bath,” I say as I fold my arms. “You didn’t say you’d be waiting for me outside of it.”
“I didn’t want you passing out again,” he says simply. “I figured I’d wait.”
“But you could’ve waited in another room,” I mutter, pulse fluttering like a trapped bird. His eyes drop slightly, just enough to scan the towel, and my heart stutters.
“I could’ve,” he agrees, then tilts his head. “But I didn’t.”
There it is again. That smug, entitled self-assurance that makes me want to scream and throttle him in the same breath. I roll my eyes hard enough that they might stick. “Fine. I’m going to my room. Or are you going to follow me? Because, well, it’s your house, right?”
Roman doesn’t miss a beat. “Do you want me to?”
Jesus freaking hell.
I throw my hands in the air, exasperated and halfway to launching a comeback sharp enough to make him blink, but my towel, traitorous and loose from my sudden movement, slips.
And falls.
For a moment, everything stops.
It’s not just my thoughts or my lungs but my entire body. My muscles lock, and every nerve is stunned with such a vicious shock that I can’t even move to cover myself. Heat floods my skin in a violent wave, and I stand there, frozen.
Mortified. Exposed. Every cell in my body screams at me to do something, but I’m stuck in that paralyzed second.
Roman steps toward me, crouching to retrieve the fallen towel with an infuriatingly gentle grace. When he straightens, his gaze is averted. Not teasing, like his words, or manipulative, like he’s taking advantage of my vulnerability.
He holds it out to me.
I snatch it from his hand, the thick fabric shaking in my grip as I try to rewrap it around myself with some semblance of dignity, but my fingers tremble too much. I can’t get it to tuck.
My hands fumble again, useless. Then his hands are covering mine, taking the towel and folding it in place. It should piss me off—my inability, his sudden switch from cocky to gentle, throwing me off-balance.
Yet all I can think about is how good it feels…how every nerve in my body is on fire. His knuckles graze my collarbone, and his fingers dip beneath my towel to touch the top of my breasts.
My breath hitches, sharp and loud, and I hate how audible it is.
His head lifts, and his eyes narrow slightly, searching mine.
No. Not searching. That would imply that he can’t see through me, because I’m as obvious as writing on the wall. I can smell the rain still clinging to his clothes, see the drop of water clinging to his temple.
His voice drops, rough as gravel, low as a secret. “Do you want me to walk away?”
Yes. No.
“I meant what I said, Bella. I’m not going to force you. It will happen, but when it does, it’ll be because you want me. Because you’ve decided that you’re mine to fuck however I want.”
Dirty, filthy words I wouldn’t take from anybody else, yet they turn me on so easily. Roman’s thumb lifts to my cheek, and the rough pad caresses in a circle. “Tell me, printsessa, what do you want?”
Please don’t make me say it .
I feel my towel slipping. Or my self-control. I’m not sure which.
“You,” I whisper.
A muscle twitches in his jaw as his hand cups my chin.
“Do you?” he whispers, leaning close to my ear.
His voice feels like honey, dripping down my throat…
thick enough to pull me under. “I can still feel you fighting me. I like a bit of struggle, Bella, but not this time. This time, I want you to surrender.”
I spent years of my life having lessons driven into me by my father. Never let anyone control you , was the main point of every single one.
But those words sound completely pointless now.
“Please,” I hear myself beg. “ Please .”
“Good,” he growls. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”