Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Maya
The first thing I know is that I am not dead. The second is that someone has changed my clothes and put me in a bed.
That should probably be comforting. But it isn’t.
Beds can be cages with nice linens, and the one beneath me is too soft, too expensive, and too unfamiliar to be anything but a problem.
The sheets smell faintly of lavender and fabric softener.
The awful chemical sweetness from the cloth still coats the back of my tongue, dull and bitter every time I swallow.
I keep my eyes closed and listen. No voices, no footsteps, no definite sound except the quiet hum of air conditioning, the soft sound of water bubbling, moving through pipes, or a fountain.
My mind takes inventory of my body before I try to move.
No restraints. No cuffs. No tape. My ankles are free.
My wrists are free. My dress from the auction is gone.
Someone changed me into a black silk robe that ties at my waist and falls to mid-thigh, modest enough to avoid immediate murder and intimate enough to make my jaw tighten.
I open my eyes slowly. The ceiling above me is high, white, and crossed by dark wooden beams. A fan turns slowly overhead.
The room is large, with pale walls, heavy curtains, a sitting area near the windows, and furniture that looks antique.
On the nightstand is a glass of water, two pills, and no note.
I stare at the pills, ignoring the note.
“Absolutely not,” I mutter. My voice sounds rough.
I sit up too fast and immediately regret it. The room dips sideways, then rights itself with a slow, insulting sway. I close my eyes, breathe through my nose, and wait for my stomach to stop considering rebellion. The memory of Stefano’s hand over my mouth comes back in pieces.
The children, where are they?
A streak of panic runs through my body, pushing me to action. I get out of bed before the room has fully agreed to hold still. My feet hit a rug so soft it annoys me on contact.
Rich men should have cold floors. Stone. Marble. Something dramatic and uncomfortable. This room is warm, quiet, and deliberately soothing, which makes it all the more irritating. A pretty room is still a cell if the person who put you there owns the locks.
Except when I reach the door and turn the handle, it opens without resistance. I stand there for a moment, staring out into the hallway.
“Well,” I whisper. “That’s rude.”
The hallway beyond is wide and dim, lined with dark wood floors, pale walls, and framed black-and-white photographs of Miami from some era when men committed crimes with hats and better posture. A runner rug muffles sound beneath my bare feet. No one stands directly outside my room.
Which means the cage is larger than I expected. Or Stefano wants me to think it is. I step into the hall. No one stops me. Three steps. Five. Ten. Still nothing.
At the far end of the corridor, a man in a black suit stands near a staircase with his hands folded in front of him. His gaze moves over me once, quick and professional, then returns to the wall as if half-dressed abducted women wander through the house at dawn all the time.
I lift my brows. “Nothing? Not even a comment?”
He still says nothing.
“Nice suit,” I compliment sarcastically.
Still nothing.
I keep walking. The hallway opens onto a landing that overlooks a foyer below, all pale stone, dark wood, and a chandelier big enough to qualify as a structural hazard.
Two men stand near the front doors. Another crosses the lower hall, speaking quietly into an earpiece.
Cameras sit tucked into corners where the casual eye might miss them.
This is not a home. It’s a fortress.
I descend the stairs, one hand skimming the rail because the drug is not completely worn off, and pride alone doesn’t protect against falling down a staircase.
The men at the front door look at me, then look away.
No one tells me to go back to my room. No one blocks my way or reaches for me.
No one even seems surprised to see me wandering the house freely.
I turn left. The first room I come across is a sitting room.
Empty. So I backtrack heading in the opposite direction.
I find a dining room. Empty. Long table.
Sixteen chairs. One vase of white flowers in the center.
No children. No sign of them. No jacket, no toy, no cup left behind.
Nothing that says Erin and Heath were brought through here.
My chest tightens as I keep looking.
The kitchen is occupied by two women and one very startled man who nearly drops a tray when I suddenly appear in the doorway.
One of the women looks me over, takes in the robe, the bare feet, the bandaged wrist, and decides with the speed of a professional survivor that she saw nothing worth mentioning.
“Coffee?” she asks.
I pause. Of all the possible greetings, that was not on the list of expectations.
“Do people usually say yes when asked if they want coffee after your boss drags them here unwillingly?”
Her mouth twitches before she catches herself. “No, miss.”
“Then there’s your answer.”
She nods and turns back to her work, seemingly unbothered by my refusal. I leave before I can decide whether the coffee is worth the trouble. It is probably good. That annoys me too. Nothing in this house has the decency to be cheap, ugly, or poorly maintained. Even the silence feels polished.
I am halfway down the next hall when I hear the sound of a paper page turning. It is soft. Almost nothing. But it stops me all the same. Tracking it to a room at the end of the hall where a door is open by a few inches. Warm light spilling through the gap.
I move toward it.
Bare feet on tiptoes. Slow, controlled breaths. Quiet as I can be. No weapon except whatever I can make from the room once I reach it. I am not in good condition for a fight, but I have never required ideal conditions to make someone regret touching me.
Inside, Stefano is reading. Actually reading.
He sits in a leather chair near the window with one ankle crossed over his knee, a book open in one hand, and a glass of something dark on the table beside him.
His shirt is black, sleeves rolled to his forearms, tattoos visible now beneath the warm lamplight.
There is a faint red mark along one cheekbone where my head caught him before he drugged me.
That improves my mood considerably.
He doesn’t look up as I slip inside. “You’re awake.”
I hate him for knowing.
“Disappointed?” I ask.
“More curious.”
“About?”
“How long it took you to find me.”
I step into the room. “You weren’t exactly hiding, you left the door open.”
“I left several doors open.”
“I noticed. I know what you're doing. A gilded cage is still a cage.”
“Perhaps,” he says, turning another page. “But it’s more entertaining.”
The room is cozy, lived in. Dark shelves line three walls, stacked with books that look read rather than staged.
A heavy desk sits near the fireplace, too neat to belong to anyone with a soul.
There are files arranged at one corner, a fountain pen placed parallel to the blotter, a crystal decanter, and a letter opener with a narrow silver blade.
It’s the first thing I’ve seen that might give me even a slight chance at having the upper hand in this entire house. I glance at Stefano; he still has not looked at me. I cross the room as if inspecting the books on the shelves.
“You drugged me,” I say simply, keeping the conversation moving.
“I did.”
“You kidnapped me.”
“You could consider it kidnapping, I suppose.”
He turns another page.
“You changed my clothes,” I accuse.
“No.”
That stops me for half a second. “No?”
“One of the women on my staff changed your clothes.”
“That was supposed to improve the situation?”
“Simply ensuring the facts are accurate.”
“You are very committed to being irritating, aren’t you?”
“I prefer to be precise.” His mouth curves slightly, though his eyes stay on the pages of his book.
I reach the desk and let my fingers brush the edge of it.
The letter opener is heavier than it looks when my fingers grip the hilt, lifting it quietly from the surface and sliding it off the desk in one fluid, natural movement.
Good balance. Not sharp enough for a clean kill unless the angle is perfect, but good enough to inflict pain, and pain can create brilliant opportunities.
I move behind him, still acting as if I’m examining the books on the shelves. He lets me. My pulse steadies. The room narrows. The ache in my head fades behind focus. The blade rests low against my wrist, hidden now by the fall of my sleeve.
Three more steps. Two. One. I strike toward the side of his throat. Point toward his artery.
His hand catches my wrist before the blade gets within six inches of his skin. Impossibly fast. The book in his other hand closes with a soft snap.
“Better,” he says.
I twist. His grip tightens, not enough to break anything, but hard enough to prove he could. Then he pulls. One sharp, efficient motion. My balance goes, my feet tangle in the hem of the robe, and I hit his lap sideways with my hip across his thighs, and my free hand lands against his chest.
The letter opener drops to the floor. For one second, all I register is the heat of his body beneath mine.
The hard lines of him, the steady rise of his chest beneath my palm.
He smells like smoke and expensive cologne, which is rude.
Kidnappers should smell like cigarettes and cheap things, not like this.
Stefano smells like a mistake someone wrapped in silk and handed me with instructions not to touch.
His hand settles at my waist, holding me tighter against him.
“Let go,” I say.
“No,” he answers, voice so low it’s almost a growl.
I try to drive my elbow into his ribs. He catches that too and pins both of my hands in one of his. The motion is clean. Practiced. Infuriating. His other hand stays at my waist, fingers spread against the robe like he has every right to keep me exactly where I landed.