Chapter 11 #2
Raffaele turns back to me, his green eyes immediately dropping to where my nipples press against the thin white fabric. He doesn’t even try to hide his appraisal, his gaze moving lazily over my body as if cataloging every detail.
“Definitely an improvement,” he says, his voice dropping a shade lower. He lifts his whiskey glass again. “Would you like some?”
Common sense tells me to refuse. I’m already lightheaded from hunger; alcohol on an empty stomach is the last thing I need. But the burn might dull the ache in my belly, and right now, I’ll take any relief I can get.
When I nod, he stands and moves over to the cart in the corner. There he finds a second glass and fills them both before returning.
“Here you go.”
Our fingers brush when I take it from him, and I nearly drop the glass at the jolt that runs through me. “Thank you,” I murmur.
“Your jeans are soaked too,” he observes, his eyes moving to my lower half. “You should take them off.”
“What? No!” The protest escapes before I can stop it.
His eyebrow raises slightly, the only sign that my defiance registers. “The shirt covers everything important. But if you’d rather stay in wet denim, you might as well head back to your room. There’s no place for you to sit in here.”
“But I—”
Before I can form a full response, he crosses to a chest near one of the bookshelves and pulls out a thick, dark blanket. Holding it up, he explains, “For your modesty.”
The way he says it makes it clear he thinks it’s a joke, and for some reason, that angers me. I’m not a joke. I’m a real human. One he’s forced here because of something my mom did. How’s that fair?
My hands shake so badly I nearly spill the whiskey as I set it down and snatch the blanket from his outstretched hand. Then I awkwardly pop open the button on my jeans and lower the zipper with one hand, while holding the blanket up to shield my body with the other.
Wiggling out of the jeans proves harder than I thought. The wet fabric clings stubbornly to my thighs. But I manage, and the relief of being free from the cold, damp denim is immediate, though it leaves me feeling horribly vulnerable.
As I wrap the blanket around my lower half, I contemplate removing my panties. Thanks to the wet jeans, they’re soaked. But I decide against it when even the thought of taking them off makes my stomach clench.
I pick up my glass again, taking a large swallow that burns all the way down. The warmth spreads through my chest, and I close my eyes briefly, savoring the sensation.
When I open them, Raffaele is watching me with an intensity that steals my breath.
“Sit,” he commands, gesturing to the chair. I obey without thinking, perching nervously on the edge with the blanket tucked securely around me.
He reaches for something on the side table—a plate with what looks like a sandwich. “If you’re going to be drinking whiskey, you should have something to eat.”
My stomach clenches painfully at the sight of food, but I shake my head. “I don’t want to increase my debt.”
Another dark laugh escapes him, the sound rich and dangerous.
“Increase your debt? You don’t understand your situation at all, do you?
” He leans forward, his expression suddenly serious.
“I already own you. This isn’t like prison time where you can serve multiple life sentences. You. Belong. To. Me.”
The words hit me like a physical blow, and I take another large gulp of whiskey to hide my reaction. It burns less this time, warming me from the inside out.
“You say I belong to you—”
“You do.”
“Right,” I huff. “But what does that mean?”
He raises his glass, but instead of drinking, he slowly swirls the deep red liquid around. “Does your cat belong to you?” he asks.
I frown, not getting the relevance. “Of course. He’s my cat.”
“What does that mean?”
I roll my lips, unsure how to answer. Having ownership of a pet is one of those things you can say, and then everyone gets what it means. But is it really just as simple with humans?
No, I decide. It can’t be. Because I also belong to Onyx. He’s my fur baby, my everything. When he plays or gets the zoomies, I laugh with joy and happiness. When he cuddles into me and snores his little head off, my heart swells with love for the furry creature.
“I’ve changed my answer,” I say, meeting Raffaele’s gaze. “Onyx and I belong to each other.”
The corner of his mouth turns upward in a barely-there smile. “Touché,” he allows.
Silence stretches once more, and I’m almost certain he isn’t going to say anything else. That really irks me. The least you can do when taking people captive is explain their roles. Lay down ground rules and expectations. It’s what the men in my books do.
“Belonging to me means you do what I tell you,” Raffaele finally says. “You’ll live here, under my roof. If you ever gain any freedom, it’s because I’ve allowed it. Same goes for anything you get.”
I nod, already knowing that much. “Is there… umm… is there anything I can do to improve my situation?” I ask on a whisper.
His sage green eyes sparkle with amusement. “What are you offering?”
My cheeks burn scarlet at the heavy innuendo in his question.
“I just mean…” God, I hate how insecure I sound and act.
In my head, I’m demanding answers. I’m putting my foot down and making him tell me exactly what he wants from me instead of the vague words that tell me nothing.
But in reality, I just mumble, “Nothing.”
The thing about being a captive is that it doesn’t come with a rule book.
Or even a how-to. I’m living day-by-day at someone else’s mercy.
I don’t know if Raffaele is going to flip at some point and start deciding I need to earn my keep on my knees.
Or use me as a punching bag. Or tell me to scrub his mansion with just a toothbrush.
Sometimes I wonder if the real punishment for my mom’s unpaid debt is the unknown. If he’s keeping me in suspense to stop me from becoming… numb? Complacent? I truly don’t know. But something tells me I don’t have the imagination to even conjure up ideas of what could happen to me.
“As my property, I need you healthy,” he continues, completely oblivious to the turmoil inside me. “And that starts with you eating regularly.” His tone leaves no room for argument.
I shake my head, determined to stand my ground.
He chuckles, but it isn’t a sound of mirth. No, it’s cold and dark. “Very well,” he states. “Then I have no use for you, and I might as well sell you to someone who doesn’t mind a woman determined to starve.”
My jaw goes slack as I take in his words. “Y-you’d sell me off?” I shriek, horrified.
Shrugging, he takes a drag of his cigar. I watch the smoke curl into a perfect ring that’s drifting toward the ceiling.
“It would be easier,” he muses. “Since you won’t eat.”
With shaking hands, I finally accept the plate. While the simple turkey and cheese sandwich looked good before, it doesn’t now. His words have tainted it, making it as appealing as a rotten apple.
“I-I don’t want to be s-sold,” I stutter around a bite. I force myself to take another bite, ignoring the ashy taste. “Please.”
Raffaele watches me eat, occasionally taking sips of his whiskey or puffs of his cigar. The silence between us should be uncomfortable, but the food and alcohol are creating a pleasant haze that dulls the edges of my fear.
When I finish the sandwich, he takes the empty plate and sets it aside. Then he gets the whiskey and pours us both more. I should refuse, but the alcohol is melting the knot of tension and fear in my chest, making everything feel slightly dreamlike.
As he returns to his seat, my eyes drift to the ornate chessboard positioned between us on a small table. The pieces are carved from some dark stone and what looks like ivory, the board itself inlaid with mother-of-pearl.
“Do you play?” he asks, following my gaze.
“No,” I admit. “My dad tried to teach me when I was little, but I never learned.” The memory brings a pang of sadness. Dad, with his patient smile, trying to explain how the knights move in their strange L-shapes while I fidgeted in my chair.
A smile plays at the corners of his mouth, transforming his face from merely handsome to something that makes my heart flutter traitorously in my chest. “That’s a shame.”
“Why?” I ask, curiosity overcoming my caution.
He takes a sip of his drink, his green eyes never leaving mine over the rim of the glass. When he sets it down, that half-smile still lingers. “Because we could have played for your freedom.”
The words hang in the air between us, loaded with possibilities. My breath catches. Is he serious? Could chess—a game I don’t even know how to play—really be my ticket out of here? Or is this just a form of torment, dangling hope like a baited hook?
“You’re joking,” I say finally, my voice barely audible over the crackling fire.
“Am I?” He shifts, muscles rippling beneath inked skin as he leans forward to pick up one of the chess pieces—a queen, black and gleaming. He rolls it between his fingers, his expression unreadable. “Every game has stakes, Alina. The question is whether you’re willing to learn how to play.”
I stare at him, at this dangerous, beautiful man who holds my future in his hands as casually as he holds that chess piece. For the first time since being brought to his house, I feel something other than fear and resignation stirring inside me.
Hope? Determination? Or something else entirely—something that makes my skin prickle with awareness every time his eyes meet mine.
“I could learn,” I say quietly, surprising myself with the steadiness in my voice. “If we’re playing for my freedom, I want to try.”
Raffaele’s smile widens, showing straight white teeth that flash in the firelight. He sets the queen back on the board with careful precision.