Chapter 7 Riley
RILEY
I've been in this house for seven full days now, watching the hours bleed together while I work through the banker's digital maze and wait for an opening that never comes.
The spare bedroom has become my cell, though Rafe never locks the door.
I sleep in fits, wake up disoriented, and spend my waking hours staring at spreadsheets until my vision blurs.
Every morning, I tell myself today will be different.
Today, I'll find a way out. Today, Rafe will leave long enough for me to slip through the cracks, but he never does.
And let's be honest. Even if he did, I'm not sure I have the guts to run anyway.
He might be able to get to Lila before I even found a way to make a call home to warn her.
As much as it pisses me off and terrifies me, I can't ignore the other undercurrent I experience every time he walks into a room I'm in and my body feels the gentle pull of gravity.
He's demanding and bossy and arrogant and the exact sort of man who could wrap his hand around my neck and squeeze enough to make my vision blur while I whisper his name in pleasure.
I push the thought away and swing my legs out of bed. The floor is cold beneath my bare feet, and I reach for the sweatshirt Rafe left draped over the chair last night. It's too big and not my color, but it's warm and it smells like cologne. I pull it on and pad down the hallway toward the kitchen.
The house is quiet this early in the morning as the sun rises slowly through the windows.
Snow has been falling on and off for the past two days, dusting the back yard in white.
I glance toward the living room as I pass but it's empty.
There's no sign of life yet, and not so much as a fire in the hearth, either.
Maybe he's still asleep.
The thought sends a flicker of hope through my chest. If he's asleep, I could check the doors. Test the locks. Figure out if there's a way to—
I stop myself before the fantasy can take root. Even if I got out, where would I go? He has people watching my sister. He said so. And I believe him. Men who can strip a car down to its frame in under an hour don't bluff about surveillance.
But a girl can dream, right?
The kitchen is small and tidy, the counters clear except for the coffee maker.
I move toward it and pull a mug from the cabinet above.
My hands go through the motions automatically—filter, grounds, water—while my mind drifts.
Today is Tuesday. Thanksgiving is two days away.
By now my family's probably deep into preparations.
My mother will be brining the turkey, my father will be organizing the folding tables in the heated garage, and my sister will be obsessing over centerpieces and place cards because everything has to be perfect for her wedding in five weeks.
It's almost a crippling sense of fear and despondency that comes over me as I watch the snow dance in the wind outside.
As far as my family knows, I'm just being held up in the city a few days.
They have no clue I may never come back, because I'm not stupid enough to believe Rafe will actually let me go—not after the things I've seen on his financial documents.
This man is dirty. I'm talking bottom of the grease trap in a fast food restaurant gross.
Extortion, laundering, smuggling, and if my assumptions are correct, even the slave trade.
It's like there's no evil he hasn't touched or taken part of, and he'll never let me live with this knowledge. That thought is sobering.
The coffee maker gurgles to life, filling the kitchen with the bitter smell of brewing grounds, and I lean against the counter and stare at the back door.
It's ten feet away. Maybe less. A deadbolt and a handle.
That's all that stands between me and the outside world.
Of course, I know all the logical reasons it will never work, which is why all I can do is move toward it and look out, pressing my forehead against the cold glass.
It's beautiful outside, and normally, I am a lover of all things white and powdery before Christmas time. But this morning, all I can think is how achingly bad my heart wants freedom I'm not sure I can ever have again. When my hand rests on the doorknob, I hear someone speak.
"Planning your escape?"
I spin around, my heart slamming against my ribs.
Rafe stands in the doorway, arms crossed, his dark hair slightly mussed from sleep.
He's wearing a black T-shirt and gray sweatpants, and his feet are bare.
The ink on his arms and around his neck seems to stand out more with the black shirt, which makes my heart flutter a little harder. He's so fucking hot.
"I was making coffee," I grumble and stomp across the room toward the coffee maker. He can make all the assumptions he wants, but the fact remains that I didn't open the door and run even though I thought about it.
"You were staring at the door."
"I was thinking."
"About leaving?" he asks, and I snap my attention to him, glaring as boldly as I can muster.
Something in me just knows he gets a rise out of it when I act like a meek little waif of a woman.
Which makes me want so badly to be the badass bitch he isn't expecting.
If only I could maintain that all the time.
"About fresh air." I turn back to the coffee maker and pour myself a cup, willing my hands not to shake. "Is that allowed, or do I need permission to breathe too?"
He doesn't answer right away. I hear his footsteps crossing the kitchen slowly and he stops behind me close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body. My fingers tighten around the mug.
"You're not going anywhere," he says quietly, and his voice is a rumble so close to my ear that it threatens to undo me.
"I wasn't trying to escape," I say firmly, and it's the God's honest truth. That's how I have the confidence to turn and face him, keeping the scalding coffee between us.
"Liar."
My chin lifts and my eyes meet his and there's not a hint of anger there.
It's almost amusement, and if I'm not mistaken, arousal.
The bulge in his sweatpants makes it so obvious.
Maybe that's why he wore them. He wants me to see what I do to him?
Or what he thinks I'd do to him if he took off the restraint.
"I need air," I say, nodding toward the back door. "That's all." And I refrain from fanning myself because my God, I really do need air. My face feels like a million degrees and my body is on fire. He smells so good.
"It's twenty degrees outside."
"Then I'll be quick."
I move toward the door, but his hand shoots out and grips my wrist. "You don't go outside without telling me first," he says.
I yank my arm free and glare at him. "I'm going to stand on the deck for five minutes. I'm not scaling the fence."
"You don't go outside," he repeats, and now his voice sounds threatening. "Without telling me first."
"Fine. I'm telling you. I'm going outside."
His eyes narrow but he says, "Go ahead," and I get the feeling he's planning to stand there watching me to make sure I don’t run.
I set the coffee mug on the counter and reach for the deadbolt.
My fingers fumble with the lock, and I feel his gaze on me the entire time.
The door swings open, and cold air rushes in, biting at my face and neck.
Snow drifts down in fat, lazy flakes, settling on the deck railing and the bare branches of the trees beyond the fence, and though I immediately regret being so goddamn rebellious sometimes, I pick up my mug and force myself to move.
I step outside and wrap my arms around myself.
The sweatshirt isn't enough. The cold slices through the fabric and needles through my skin, but I don't go back inside.
My toes feel like they've been frozen solid in under thirty seconds, but still, I stand there, breathing in the frozen air, and watch the snow fall.
I refuse to give him any satisfaction in this. I deserve the right to breathe in fresh air when I damn well please. The coffee could warm me, but even it's cold in ninety seconds, or at least tepid. And I'm fighting every urge to shiver when I hear the door click shut behind me.
I spin around and see Rafe standing just inside the threshold, his hand still on the handle. He's watching me through the glass with an amused expression like he's enjoying watching me suffer, and I hate him for it. I hold his gaze for a moment, then turn back to the yard, but the door opens again.
"Get inside," he grumbles.
"I said five minutes."
"You've had two."
"Then I have three left."
I hear him exhale. Then his footsteps cross the deck, and suddenly, he's beside me, his arms folded across his chest. He doesn't look at me. He looks out at the yard, but I look at him and I watch his jaw tighten.
"You're going to freeze out here," he says.
"That's my problem."
"Everything you do is my problem." He flicks a glance at me and his expression darkens more. He knows he won't beat me, and he's given up, choosing to join me instead. How cute.
I almost smirk at him because I know I'm getting to him, and I love it. And the noticeable bulge has shrunken in the front of his sweats, which means he's cooled off as much as I have, so that’s not a horrible thing. Being turned on by him is a huge red flag.
"What are they doing right now?" I ask.
He frowns. "Who?"
"My family. My sister. My parents. What are they doing?"
His expression doesn't change but his eyes turn toward the neighbor's back yard over his privacy fence where the sound of a snowblower turning on perks our attention. "I don't know."
"Yes, you do. You're watching them, aren't you? That's what you said. You have people on my sister."
He doesn't answer and I'm left to wonder what that means.
"Thanksgiving's in two days," I continue, my voice quieter now.
"My mother is probably losing her mind because I'm not there.
My sister's probably panicking because the bridesmaid dress is still in my car.
And my father—" I stop, swallowing hard.
"My father probably thinks I'm lying in a ditch somewhere. "
"They think you're having car trouble," Rafe says. "You told them that."
"Because you made me."
"It keeps them safe…" His voice trails off, but it makes me angry that he can dismiss my emotions so easily.
I turn to face him fully now, anger flaring in my chest. "Safe from what? From you?"
His eyes snap to mine, and for the first time since I stepped outside, I see something flicker beneath the surface, like mistrust or hesitation. This man has his doubts about keeping me here and that's something I can use.
"From the people who want what you're working on," he says. "People who will burn through everything to get what they want."
If he never pulled me into this situation, I wouldn't need his protection, and I don't believe for a second that these people even exist.
"I hate you," I say quietly.
His lips purse and he says, "Good."
He turns to go back inside, and even though I want to keep defying him, I'm too cold to stand here. My feet are probably frostbitten and they're definitely sore. So I follow him inside and dump the cold coffee in the sink, setting the mug down to refill it.
"I want to go home," I tell him bluntly as I pour more hot brew into my mug, and he leans against the counter next to where I stand.
"I want my ledgers fixed… So we're at an impasse."
I see a hint of a shiver in his jaw and smirk. "Yes, an impasse," I say numbly as I let every muscle in my body relax. It's an old trick my father taught me as a child. Shivering happens when your muscles are tight, so if you keep them relaxed, it looks like you're not cold.
"Except I hold the leverage."
The statement pisses me off because I know he's right, but I also know something about him that might just make him crack, and I can't stop myself.
My bra lies over the foot of the bed, and all I'm wearing under this sweatshirt of his is a skimpy camisole that's skintight.
So I set my mug down and peel the sweatshirt off, handing it to him as I toss my hair.
Then I pick up the coffee mug again and smile as I watch his eyes track down to my tits.
My nipples are rock hard from being cold, and he notices immediately. It's enjoyable knowing the power I have over him, because that is just as much leverage, in my opinion, as what he holds over me.
"I'm going to work now. Maybe you should make breakfast to prove you're good for more than bossing me around.
" With my chest puffed out and my coffee in hand, I move toward the doorway, and his eyes stay locked on me the entire time.
When I get to the door, I turn to look at him and notice the very distinct sweatpants bulge has returned with vengeance and Mr. “I Have Leverage" is almost drooling. "I like my bacon extra-crispy."
Then I spin on my heel and walk up the hall, finally letting myself shiver once I’m out of sight. Because holy fuck, was that cold. But it was totally worth it.
Rafe Ferretti is a man I can manipulate.
Every day's a school day…