14. Sara
Sara
Dante strides beside me, his hand creating an uncompromising pressure on my elbow.
I have no idea what time it is, but based on how my stomach’s growling, I missed dinner.
I peek up at him to see if he noticed, only to find myself momentarily distracted by the sight of him pushing his wavy brown hair off his angular face.
His muscles strain against his t-shirt’s sleeves, and my mouth waters.
He smells of fresh sandalwood and whatever shampoo he’s currently using.
After last night, the close proximity is torture, but I try not to let it show. He’s his usual cold, stoic self, though his expression seems a little softer. I can’t tell if my ability to read his poker face is improving or if he’s slowly dropping his guard.
Now that he’s not glaring at me, I can see the dark circles beneath his eyes.
I can’t help but tease him a little. “Rough night?”
He grunts and shoves me forward. “Walk.”
Wincing, I get on the elevator, shying away when he reaches around me and presses the button for the first floor.
I can’t handle his touch in this moment.
Not after listening to him come as he watched me touch myself.
I tried to speak to him afterward, but he didn’t respond, his silence dimming the afterglow of my much-needed release.
I lean back against the wall of the elevator and wonder where he’s taking me.
Over two weeks have passed since Dante abducted me, and thanks to Gregor, I’m becoming more familiar with the house’s layout. Sometimes I ask my guard probing questions, other times I just pick up details during our increasingly casual, albeit brief interactions.
Like Angela, he shows up frequently. Between Gregor and my visit to the training ring that first day, I’ve surmised that Dante has at least seven guards. Some of them live in the townhouse next door, which Dante also owns, while the others have rooms somewhere upstairs.
Angela is part of the medical team on the third floor, but I don’t know how many others work with her.
I’ve been gathering as much information as I can about how things operate and who’s who, just in case I can use it to my advantage somehow.
Unfortunately, all the intel in the world is useless if I’m locked up the whole time.
But when Dante opened my cell five minutes ago and told me I needed to start earning my keep, I thought my prayers were answered. Now, as he drags me out of the elevator, his hand shackling my wrist, I’m not so sure.
My eyes widen as I absorb the ornate, gold-trimmed furniture.
Feeling shabby by comparison, I hitch my too-large sweatpants up a little higher and straighten the edges of my sweatshirt.
If this were a test to see how well I fit in here, I would be failing.
Unaware or uncaring of my discomfort, Dante tugs me down a corridor featuring tasteful artwork, fancy crown molding, a recessed ceiling, and gleaming dark wooden floors.
Each hallway and door create a potential escape route. Or, at least, they would be if there weren’t security cameras every dozen feet. I cast my eyes downward so it doesn’t seem like I’m casing the joint.
The house resembles a model home. Expensive belongings furnish the rooms we pass, but none of them remind me of Dante. This place intentionally doesn’t reveal anything about the owner. The decor serves as yet another mask, a fact that irritates me.
Is nothing about this man real? Is every waking moment an act for some imagined audience? Was I just another object for him to flaunt? A thing with no real meaning to fit the image he wants to display to the rest of the world?
Dante pushes open a set of swinging double doors at the end of the hallway, and we enter a chef’s paradise dominated by shiny chrome, from the two massive stovetops to the three industrial-sized refrigerators.
In an open doorway near the window, I discover a walk-in pantry bigger than my bedroom at home.
I gape in wonder. “Are you cooking for an army?”
Dante sits in a chair at the island in the middle of the room and rests his elbows on the butcher block surface. “No. But if all goes well tonight, you will be.”
Stunned, all I can do is blink. “What?”
Dante steeples his fingers and taps his chin. He seems …amused? The little smirk playing across his lips gives me a bad feeling. “I told you, didn’t I? You need to earn your keep. My chef, Gino, is off tonight. You’re going to take his place.”
Cringing, I eye the kitchen in doubt. “Cooking isn’t exactly my specialty—”
Abruptly, the smile disappears. “Learn fast. It’s either this or…” His jaw clenches as if he’s trapping words. He shakes his head and glares. “Make yourself useful, Boyd. Give me a reason to keep you breathing for a little while longer.”
I flinch, my pulse skyrocketing. I don’t think he’ll kill me if I refuse to cook—he’s had plenty of opportunities to do so before now—and I doubt such a meaningless rejection will equate to a death sentence.
Still, he’s proven that he’s more than capable of making my life hell, and I want to avoid provoking him if possible.
When faced with a more powerful enemy, one must learn to pick and choose one’s battles.
That’s what he said, wasn’t it?
My hand clenches at my side, and my eyes dart between his. “What should I prepare?”
His jaw softens, the tension leaving his posture as if my cooperation relieves him. “My nonna’s marinated zucchini.”
Everything, the fear and the nervousness, dissipates with his warm tone.
Dante taught me this dish, and while I used to make it for him all the time, I haven’t been able to bring myself to cook it again after Jeremy and I left for Ohio.
I’m not sure if I recall all the ingredients, but hopefully muscle memory will kick in and save me.
“What if I don’t remember how?”
Dante gives me a slow once-over. “Tell you what. For every step you get wrong, you’ll remove a single article of clothing. That should help you focus.”
How the hell is that helpful? I’m only wearing two things, and they’re both yours!
Straightening my shoulders, I start pulling items out of the pantry one by one and setting them on the island.
Dante taps a finger on the counter. “Wrong.”
My head whips in his direction. Already? Scanning the ingredients, I try to identify my mistake. “Which one?”
He shrugs. “Guess.”
I bite back an expletive while racking my mind for my error. Then it hits me. Garlic. Dante’s allergic. How could I forget about an Italian’s garlic allergy? If I weren’t so wound up, I might even laugh. Instead, I shove the garlic back into the pantry. Out of sight, out of mind.
He hums before crooking his finger at me. “Take off your bra.”
My jaw tightens, but honestly, that’s better than I anticipated. Reaching under the sweater he’d given me, I unhook my bra and let it fall. I turn to go back to the stove, but Danta tsks in disapproval. “Not so fast.” I stop in my tracks, my dread mounting. “Come here.”
Reluctantly, I circle the counter. I don’t know what to expect, but when Dante hooks his fingers in the waistband of his borrowed sweats and tugs me close, I yelp.
“What are you doing?”
I try to twist free as he cinches the material to my chest, cups the underside of my breast, and swipes his tongue over my nipple.
Desire gathers between my legs as he jerks me closer, his mouth closing on the stiff peak denting the fabric.
His teeth scrapes the sensitive flesh, and I whimper as he releases me.
“Now try again.” His tone is unusually gruff.
With a scrambled brain and shaky hands, I rifle through the ingredients on the counter, attempting to regain my previous train of thought. When I knock over the pepper, Dante twitches like a cat about to pounce, and my blood pressure spikes so fast that spots dance in front of my eyes.
I don’t know what I’ll do if he gets his hands on me a second time.
Both of my nipples are as hard as rocks, and every time I shift the tiniest bit, the cotton brushes my skin.
I’m painfully sensitive, and reaching into the cabinet for spices coils heat through me because I know he’s waiting for me to fail.
Maybe I even want to fail just to see what he does to me next.
With trembling hands, I wash and slice the only zucchini I could find in the fridge, dropping the pieces several times in the process. The recipe sounds much simpler than it actually is. A little frustrating, but complaining about his grandmother feels blasphemous and ill-advised.
Substituting squash for the rest of the zucchini costs me the sweatpants. Dante gestures for me again while I squeeze my bare legs together in front of the refrigerator.
“Touching me wasn’t part of the deal.” I attempt a playful tone but must miss the mark because he scowls.
His eyes drop to the apex of my thighs, and my skin flushes from my hairline down to my neck. “My game. My rules.”
When I remain stubbornly still, he sighs and relents.
Realizing my reprieve will likely be short-lived, I quickly jump into action.
Maybe, if I dazzle him with the food regardless of the errors, he’ll let me off the hook.
I rush through mixing lemon zest and ricotta, and while everything simmers, I set ciabatta on a plate since I know he loves to dip the bread in the sauce.
I need to keep this man’s hands occupied at all costs.
The longer I work, the more I remember, and the kitchen grows fragrant with spices. The heat from the stove seeps into my bones, the familiar comfort of the mundane tasks causing everything else to just fade away. It’s the most content I’ve felt in weeks. I don’t even mind my missing pants so much.
Dante doesn’t tease me again, and I peek over to find him oddly transfixed. Not in a sexual way, but more how he used to watch me when he found my behavior interesting.