Chapter 4 #2
Because I have. Just not from anyone I’ve dated. But Andriani does not need to know that.
He just gives me a look that says he doesn’t believe me.
And now I’m even more irritated that my attempt to insult him backfired so spectacularly that it led to us talking about my sex life.
That’s the last thing I need to be discussing with the bloodthirsty bastard who kidnapped me to get back at my brother.
“Going to make a little noise in here,” he tells me, mercifully changing the subject.
“Go right ahead.” I roll my eyes.
As if I have a choice.
But he’s already turned away, going back into the hall and returning with a giant piece of plywood.
Apparently, he’s going to bolt that to the window from the inside too.
He’s also ignoring me, his face expressionless as he breezes by like we weren’t just talking about my orgasms and he’s not holding a heavy-ass piece of wood.
Dickhead.
“What is this, Crazy Italian’s Home Reno Service?” I snark.
“Something like that.”
He rests the plywood against the wall and goes back for his power tool.
Unfortunately, I’m forced to watch his every step.
I’m cuffed to the bed, and I can’t move.
Closing my eyes feels childish, but that means I have to watch his ridiculously hot profile and his long legs and tight ass walking around in that suit.
His shoulders are broad, stretching the black jacket.
He looks like he stepped out of a fashion spread rather than a grimy old hunting cabin filled with murdered animal heads.
He goes back to the window without a word and sets down the tool at his feet before he lifts the plywood over the panes. Making it all look effortless, he holds the wood in place with one flattened, tatted hand. Then he reaches for the power tool.
I mentally prepare myself for the loudness, but I can’t help but jolt when he starts attaching the wood to the wall.
“Is there a reason you’re boarding up the window?” I ask, grateful for the reprieve.
“You.”
“How long are you—”
He starts up the power tool again, drowning out the rest of my question.
Jackass.
He stops, and silence fills the room.
“How long—” I start again, only for him to begin drilling again.
I sigh and suffer through the rest of his little home improvement project.
“Look, Andriani, this could all be over right now if you just let me go,” I point out.
He doesn’t even look in my direction. Just walks out with his power tool, saying nothing. But he leaves the door open, so I assume he’ll be back.
“How are you so sure that it was Misha who blew up your restaurant anyway?” I ask, trying a different tactic.
He doesn’t answer that either.
“Andriani, are you going to leave me here again? I’m starting to lose my mind.”
He reappears then, sauntering over the threshold and shrugging off his suit jacket. “Did you ever have it to begin with?”
“Ha-ha,” I deadpan.
But he’s not wrong. I’d have to have completely lost it to be checking out the way his white shirt stretches across his broad shoulders and pecs, or the way it lovingly clings to his biceps as he hangs the jacket off the doorknob before heading in my direction.
“Just think about how much easier your life would be right now if you didn’t have to deal with me,” I point out, forcing a smile.
Since I’ve been a prisoner for an entire day and I’ve been wearing the same clothing for over twenty-four hours, I probably look like a rabid squirrel about to go to battle over an acorn. But never mind that. I’ve told myself to try to reason with him. To try to be as nice as possible.
In other words, no more threatening to cut off his dick with dull blades, and maybe he’ll be more inclined to let me go.
He stops by the bed, looking down at me as he runs a hand along his jaw. “You’re right. Maybe I should just kill you now, rather than later.”
My blood goes cold, even though I think he’s bluffing.
That’s the worst part of this. Andriani could be capable of anything. And when it comes down to a war between the Bratva and the Mafia, I have no doubt he wouldn’t hesitate to make me a casualty if it were in his family’s best interests.
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” I protest.
He leans over me, so close that I can see the flecks of gray in his irises. “Then shut the fuck up.”
Absurdly, that stings. I don’t know why. He is my kidnapper after all. But I don’t want him to see that.
“Am I annoying you, Andriani? Good. Because you know what? I don’t like being kidnapped off the street and taken into the woods at gunpoint or handcuffed to a bed. I don’t like—”
His hand flattens over my mouth, muffling the rest of my rant.
“I don’t care what you don’t like,” he growls. “Now, if you don’t want to spend the rest of the day with duct tape on this pretty mouth of yours, you’ll stop annoying the fuck out of me.”
I try to bite him, but the way he’s cupped his hand makes it impossible for me to catch any flesh between my teeth. So I lick him instead. Which is a mistake. Because I like licking him. And it makes me want to lick him other places.
Wrong. So wrong, Katya.
He doesn’t remove his hand.
“You know what?” he growls. “Keep it up, and the first body part I send to your piece-of-shit brother when he asks for more proof of life will be your tongue.”
I swallow hard. Because that seems like a very real and very frightening threat. His expression is harsh and hard. There’s not an ounce of pity in this man, and I think I may have pushed him too far.
Threats didn’t work. Trying to escape didn’t. And now, annoying him is proving another misstep in my arsenal of defense.
Where the hell are you, Misha?
“Do we have an understanding?” Andriani asks coldly.
“Mmmhmm,” I manage.
“Good. It’s time for a bathroom break, and then you can have your shower. If you try anything stupid, I’ll put a bullet in you before you can even blink an eye.”
I swallow again. Noted.
He takes his hand away and wipes it on my bare stomach, just above the waistband of my jeans. It’s not an intimate touch. He’s slicking my spit over me. But the touch of his hand on my skin sends a ridiculous wave of heat through me.
“Don’t do that again,” he warns.
Then he starts to unlock my cuffs, keeping his Glock on me all the while.
Because I am desperate to pee, I hold my tongue and dutifully go to the bathroom.
As before, he waits by the door as I do my business, this time allowing me to go without cuffs.
It’s a welcome reprieve. But when I’m finished washing my hands, he’s blocking the doorway with his big body.
“Take off your clothes.”
My stomach drops.
“What?”
“You want a shower, fine. You can have one. But you’re going to have to do it my way.”
I am not stripping in front of this motherfucker.
I shake my head. “No.”
He shrugs. “No shower, then.”
I want a shower more than I want anything else right now. For a clean freak who sometimes showers twice a day, going without has been torture.
“Wait,” I say. “There has to be another way.”
“My way or no way.”
I clench my jaw, trying to hold in my rising fury and frustration. Trying to play nice. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do in situations like this? Humanize yourself to your captor. Be nice. Sympathetic. Stroke his ego.
“Can’t I just close the door and get down to business?”
He’s looking at me like I’m a speck of dirt on his expensive Italian loafers. An annoyance. A bug he can swat so I stop flying around his head.
“No, you can’t,” he says, gesturing at me with the Glock. “Everything has to come off first, and then I’m going to handcuff you to me.”
“I’m not taking a shower with you, zasranets,” I blurt.
“Not what I had in mind, but I see where that dirty mind of yours was taking you.”
I grind my teeth. “Believe me, that’s the last thing I’m thinking of.”
“I don’t blame you.” He smirks. “I do have a way about me.”
“That makes everyone in your presence fantasize about bashing your skull in with a blunt object?”
His cool gaze is assessing. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll sheathe your claws, hellcat.”
“I’d rather put them to good use.”
“I can think of better uses for them.”