Chapter 12
Imogen
Would it be pathetic to say I anticipate his check-ins?
There’s a buzz that hums through me like an electric current when I see the red dot blinking.
I know he’s behind the lens. Watching. Observing.
It’s awful to admit but there’s comfort in knowing I’m not completely alone.
God, soon I’ll be Pavlov’s dog.
Sighing heavily I toy with the bandages I woke up to under my cuffs.
Ma always did say I slept harder than the dead. Pa had always joked princesses didn’t need to sleep with one eye open like knights. I never wanted to be the princess. I wanted to be a knight like my brother. To fight. To learn the trades of the business. To be seen as more than a docile socialite.
Pa never took me seriously. I really wish he had. God, I could’ve done so much for the family. Lifted us to new heights. But all his cards were on Niall. Gambling with me would only put him in debt.
Sometimes I wonder if he ever regrets the consequences of his actions. I smother a sardonic laugh. No, pa suffers from pride and stubbornness. He has too damn much of it to admit his wrongs. Even when it led to the death of his only son.
Picking a fight with The Donati Famiglia will only lead to countless more.
Because the man who captured me has a reputation known to be unmerciful. No one lives under the hands of Rico Maroni.
And I have to wonder, when will I suffer the same fate as the many before me?
The key turning in the lock has me jumping off of the bed like I’ve been injected with a dose of adrenaline. Every time he comes for a visit I’m never on the bed. Consciously, at least. I’ll never put myself in a more vulnerable position than I already am.
Not that he’s tried anything. His eyes don’t even linger. But still a woman knows very well to never trust a man. I’d rather take my chances on sleeping with the hyenas.
My senses are already hyper aware of him before his foot crosses the threshold. The fine hairs on my arm stand on their ends. A chill sweeps through me. My lungs are short of oxygen. My heart races at a maddening pace.
I clench my hands until the knuckles are bone white. I will myself to calm down by taking long breaths. But how can I? He never did tell me what his motives entail. The quickness of breaths returns with a vengeance.
Now’s not the time, Imogen. You’re alive. Fight to see another day.
God, I hate how his smell of amber is welcome. Anything is better than my own wretched reek.
I protectively keep my arms rested at my middle. There may not be much damage I can do while cuffed but I’ll be damned if I don’t even try.
“Is this a bathroom visit or am I finally allowed a shower?” I can’t hide the venom laced in my tone.
“Hello to you too, Imogen,” he says dryly.
“Fuck off,” I snap. “What? You can dress my wounds but I can’t properly wash myself?”
“If I had let your wounds go untreated they would’ve become infected.”
His methodic voice is like damn rage bait. My cheeks heat. “And I wouldn’t have any damn wounds if you hadn’t tightened these cuffs so fucking tight.”
“You have a very. . .colorful vocabulary .” No apology. Only insults.
I move closer towards him on the instinct to strike. “Fuck you! You fucking asshole!”
He doesn’t retreat. My outburst doesn’t affect him in the slightest. Instead, he closes the distance between us. Meeting my fury with his tranquility.
Him and I. Fire and ice.
“You know at least prisoners get to fucking shower,” I say through clenched teeth.
“You curse frequently when you’re furious.” He observes. All he does is observe. I might as well be under a microscope.
I glare up at him. “I’m sorry. How would you like me to behave?”
The tip of his lip pulls upward for a second. If I had blinked I would have surely missed it. To be honest I don’t even think he realizes what he did. “Sarcasm and foul language. And they call you a princess back home?”
“Get me out of these damn restraints and I’ll show you just how much of a princess I really am.”
“No need for that. I’m already well aware of your capabilities, Imogen.” He waves his hand in the vicinity of his face and I can’t hold back the cruel smirk.
“I can always add a few more.”
“I’m sure you can,” he agrees easily. He then leans down so his face is at level with mine. His scent of amber fills my nostrils. God, I hate how pleasant it is. Why can’t he smell like cigarettes or cheap booze? I know plenty of Made Men back home that do. “But I have other plans for you today.”
Instinctively I take a step back. “Plans,” I echo, my voice trembling.
He stiffly nods his head. “I think it’s time your father knows who you belong to.”
Fire licks my skin, replacing the fear. My voice is as sharp as a blade. “I don’t belong to any one.”
“Until your father agrees with our demands you belong to me and The Donati Famiglia.”
“Well,” I begin with my nose haughtily in the air, “good luck on your so called plans. I’m not interested.”
Closing the distance between us once again he steps forward. His thumb swipes along my chin. Embers rest in the wake of his touch. “You’re acting as if you have a choice here. You either comply or I force you to.”
“You can’t force me to do anything.”
His hand then comes to rest on the nape of my neck.
He applies a hint of pressure. Enough for me to know he could do irreparable harm if he chose to.
Raising his other hand I see the familiar syringe.
I try to fight out of his hold but the pressure on my neck intensifies to the point where my knees begin to buckle.
“What will it be, Imogen?”
I eye the syringe and then him. In the dark depths of his eyes I try to search for empathy. A slice of humanity. And maybe it’s there. Somewhere in those uncharted waters. But I can’t find it.
Surprising myself and him I spit at his face. “Fuck you.”
He blinks once. Twice. I wait for the inevitable. No Made Man is to be disrespected. Least of all by a woman. My muscles tense as the seconds tick by. Instead that same twitch of his upper lip happens.
His hand slithers from the nape of my neck to cradle my head. Goosebumps appear on my flesh as I lose all breath. Tangling my hair in his fingers he uses the leverage to tilt my head. My neck is exposed. Even being fully clothed I’ve never felt so vulnerable.
My bound hands come between us as they grasp onto his shirt in a desperate plea. “Don’t do this.”
“You chose this,” he says monotonously.
As he places the syringe against my neck my damn eyes water. Feeling the prick I promise him darkly, “I will kill you.”
He administers the drug and my legs give out beneath me. Before I can hit the floor he sweeps me in his arms. He tucks me close to his chest, supporting my head with his bicep.
I feel him clear the strands of hair from my face. His touch lingers on my cheeks. “I believe you la mia gazzella.” His voice follows after me as I slip into unconsciousness.
I fear I’ll never be able to escape him. My very own twisted beautiful nightmare.