Chapter 11
Alina
Ijolt awake with a gasp, my mom’s name dying on my lips as the nightmare dissolves into shadow.
Sweat clings to my skin despite the chill in the room, my heart hammers against my ribs like it’s trying to break free. The sheets twist around my legs, damp with fear and tangled from my thrashing.
For a moment, I can still see her face, still hear her impossible request echoing in my ears—the words I can never unhear, the promise I wish I’d never made.
Onyx stirs beside me, his yellow eyes blinking slowly in the darkness. He stretches, paws extending toward my trembling hand as if offering comfort. I stroke his sleek fur, focusing on the softness beneath my fingers instead of the remnants of my nightmare.
“It’s okay,” I whisper, though I’m not sure which of us I’m trying to reassure.
My stomach cramps violently, a painful reminder of what little I’ve eaten since Raffaele took—collected—me. I can’t even remember if I’ve had any food today or if it was yesterday.
The days have blurred together in this luxurious prison. Without a clock, I have no idea if it’s midnight or dawn, only that the darkness feels thick and heavy around me.
I reach for the lamp on the bedside table, my fingers fumbling until light floods the room, momentarily blinding me. My eyes adjust slowly, taking in the surroundings of my cage. But something feels… off.
Getting up, I look around, trying to find anything obvious that’s making me feel watched. There isn’t, though. Everything looks like it did when I went to bed.
Looking at the closed bedroom door, something hits me. It’s closed, yes. But I don’t think I ever heard it being locked. I’ve never tested it, just assumed. Gah, this is exactly why you should never make assumptions. How does the saying go?
I shake my head and let the thoughts drift away. It doesn’t matter. Someone like Raffaele doesn’t leave doors unlocked by accident. No, it’s more likely he isn’t bothering because there’s no escaping the house at all. Or… maybe just no escaping him.
A small, hysterically ill-timed laugh bubbles in my throat. I’m imagining myself running out the front door in nothing but the clothes I arrived in, which I washed again before I went to bed. Yeah, I’d be caught or freezing to death in no time.
“That’s not funny,” I croak, reprimanding myself.
My parched throat reminds me why waking might be a blessing. I’m desperately thirsty, my lips cracked and dry. Maybe I could find the kitchen and get some water. The thought of cool liquid sliding down my throat is almost painfully tempting.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, wincing as my bare feet touch the cold floor. Onyx watches me with what looks suspiciously like judgment, his tail twitching against the duvet.
“I’m just getting water,” I tell him, as if I need to justify my actions to my cat. “I’ll be right back.”
The clothes still hang over the heated towel rack in the bathroom. I touch them gingerly—still wet, and if I’m honest, they don’t smell all that clean. Whatever, even wet and poorly washed, it’s better than nothing.
The fabric feels clammy and cold against my skin as I pull on my jeans, the material clinging unpleasantly to my thighs. My shirt isn’t much better. But it’s mine, not his.
I creep to the bedroom door, pressing my ear against it. Nothing but silence greets me. My hand trembles as it closes around the knob. I turn it slowly, half-expecting alarms to blare or guards to appear from nowhere, but the door swings open without resistance.
The hallway stretches before me, dimly lit and eerily quiet. I take a hesitant step forward, then another. I blow a kiss to Onyx before closing the door and venturing down the corridor.
I try to remember the path we took when Raffaele brought me here, but everything looks different in the low light. Each shadow seems to reach for me, every creaking floorboard beneath the carpet a betrayal of my escape from my designated space.
At the end of the hall, a staircase comes into view. Right, I’d forgotten about climbing it. I descend slowly, one hand gripping the railing to steady my lightheaded wobbling. The emptiness in my stomach feels like a living thing, gnawing at me from within.
Guess this hunger takes running out of the question.
I wander through unfamiliar territory, opening doors cautiously, finding rooms that speak of wealth and power but tell me nothing about their owner.
A dining room with a table large enough for twelve. A formal sitting room with furniture that looks like it’s never been used. An office with the door slightly ajar that I hurry past, afraid of what—or who—might be inside.
Then I see it; warm light spilling from beneath a door at the end of the hall, golden and inviting. Like a moth to a flame, I’m drawn toward it. The low crackle of a fire reaches my ears, promising warmth my damp clothes can’t provide.
I push the door open just enough to peek inside. A library. The walls are lined with books from floor to ceiling, leather spines gleaming in the firelight. A massive stone fireplace dominates one wall, flames dancing merrily behind a wrought-iron screen.
The room smells of leather and old paper and wood smoke—comforting scents that remind me of safety, of times before nightmares and debts I didn’t create.
I step inside, unable to resist the allure of warmth after so much cold. My arms wrap around my middle, hugging myself as I move closer to the fire. The heat kisses my skin, and I close my eyes briefly, savoring the sensation.
“Enjoying yourself?”
I yelp and my eyes snap open. The voice—low, gravelly, amused—comes from a dark couch positioned near the fireplace that I somehow missed in my fixation on the flames. And there he is.
Raffaele Russo, stretched out like some pagan god of punishment and pleasure.
He’s shirtless. That’s the first thing my brain registers, followed immediately by a hot flush that has nothing to do with the fire. His chest is broad and sculpted, muscles clearly defined beneath smooth skin.
Tattoos cover his torso; a wolf curls around his ribcage, and his arms are completely covered in intricate black ink that disappears into the waistband of his sweatpants.
I’ve never seen a man like this before—half-naked, powerful, dangerous. A cigar dangles from one hand, smoke curling upward like ghostly fingers. The other hand holds a crystal tumbler filled with amber liquid that catches the firelight.
My mouth goes dry. My heart pounds for entirely different reasons than when I woke from my nightmare. I want to run, but my feet seem rooted to the plush carpet.
“I-I’m sorry,” I stammer, my voice barely above a whisper. “I was looking for the kitchen. I didn’t mean to intrude.”
His sage green eyes sweep over me, taking in my damp clothes and trembling form. A slow smile spreads across his face, predatory and knowing.
“No intrusion,” he says, bringing the cigar to his lips and inhaling deeply. When he exhales, the smoke creates a momentary veil between us. “You might as well stay and entertain me.”
I shiver, both from my wet clothes and his words. Entertain him? What does that mean? Images flash through my mind—terrible, tempting images that make my cheeks burn and my pulse race.
And God help me, my eyes drop to his crotch before I can stop them. I lick my lips nervously, then immediately regret it when his eyes track the movement, that smile growing wider.
I’ve never wanted to disappear more in my life.
“You’re shaking.” Raffaele’s voice cuts through the silence between us, his eyes narrowing as they track the tremor in my hands. He sits up straighter, setting his glass down on a small table beside the couch. “Why are you wearing wet clothes?”
I wrap my arms tighter around myself, the damp fabric of my shirt clinging uncomfortably to my skin. “They’re not wet,” I lie. “Just… cold.”
“Bullshit.” He takes another drag of his cigar, the ember glowing bright orange in the dim room. “Those clothes are soaked through. Why?”
The question hangs between us, and I press my lips together. What am I supposed to say? That I’m so desperate to maintain some scrap of independence that I’d rather wear wet clothes I wash in a bathroom sink than accept anything he’s provided?
“Fine,” he says when I don’t answer. He reaches for the white t-shirt hanging over the side of the couch and tosses it at me. It lands against my chest. “Put this on before you catch pneumonia.”
“I…” My voice falters as I clutch the fabric. It smells like him—a mix of smoke and expensive cologne and something uniquely male. “Here?”
“Why not?” He sounds almost bored as he turns he looks away from me, facing the fire. “Are you too shy? Too much of a good girl?”
My cheeks flame at the implication. I glance around for somewhere more private, but the only option would be retreating behind a bookshelf or leaving the room entirely. And I know he won’t let me do either.
“Can you at least turn around?” I beg.
He lets out a dark laugh that reverberates around the room. “Sure, Piccola. I’ll even close my eyes so we can preserve your virtue,” he mocks. He lets his eyelids cover his sage green orbs before shifting so his back is to me.
I’m pretty sure my high school Italian teacher once made us watch a movie where piccola was used as an endearment. But I can’t remember if the subtitles read ‘little one’, ‘my girl’, or simply ‘baby’.
Not trusting him, I walk over to the chair and give him my back while I peel my wet shirt over my head. The air hits my damp skin, raising goosebumps across my flesh. My bra follows, the cold having already made my nipples painfully hard.
I try not to think about how exposed I am as I stand there, half-naked in a strange man’s library. I pull his shirt on quickly, the soft fabric settling over my curves like a caress.
It’s huge on me, hanging nearly to mid-thigh, the sleeves reaching my elbows. But it’s warm and dry and smells of him in a way that makes something low in my belly tighten.
“Done,” I say quietly.