Chapter 6 - Izabel
The thing that people quickly learn about me is that I don’t take things lying down. If you hit me, I’m hitting back, both figuratively and literally.
So, the more Anton tries to push me into this stereotypical good little wife role…the more I kick back.
Last night, I got up while he was asleep and crept downstairs to where I had previously located the breaker panel in the laundry room.
I turned everything off and then broke the switches to make it very annoying to try and turn back on. It’s probably illegal to tamper with stuff like that, but hey, so is kidnapping.
The mansion went quiet for a few seconds, and then the hum of an emergency backup generator kicked in, but I checked the light switches, and it seems it’s only really for the security system, not the whole place.
The fridge was off, the lights were off, the outlets were all off, and the water heater was probably off, too.
I waited until morning to hear him come past my bedroom to head downstairs for his coffee.
From the few short days I’ve been here, I already know he’s obsessed with his morning coffee.
Yesterday, I hunted down every last bag of coffee beans and threw them out.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough to annoy him, and he simply sent his driver out for more beans and to bring back takeout.
He even brought me takeout coffee, too. It was a gesture that annoyed the hell out of me, considering I was the one who caused all the drama, and he was fully aware of it.
And the day before that, I slashed his tires.
Not just one car. All of them. I have to admit something here—I thought it would be easier.
Slashing tires is actually a lot of hard work.
Anyways, that didn’t even summon a frown out of him.
He chuckled when he saw it. Chuckled and shook his head, as though I was amusing to him.
That’s why I upped the game today.
Waiting a few moments, I let him get ahead of me before leaving my room and following him through to the kitchen. I stand outside the doorway, listening with a grin on my face.
I hear him flick a switch. On. Off. Then again. Then a groan of sorts. I wait for the outburst, but nothing happens. I wait, standing as still as I can, trying to work out what he’s doing.
After a while, he starts humming! I can’t take it anymore, and I peek around the doorway into the kitchen to see what is going on.
That asshole has a mini gas stove out, like a small camping burner, and he has his macchiato coffee machine on it. It’s like he’s being ridiculous on purpose to make a point.
“Good morning,” he says cheerfully. He turns to face me. Why the hell isn’t he wearing a T-shirt or something? And gray sweatpants? Are you kidding me! Could he be more cliched if he tried!
The dark shadow of stubble on his jaw makes him look a little rugged. A little more dangerous.
The biggest problem is that he looks fucking divine.
His chest is adorned with the dark ink of one massive, swirling tattoo that sculpts over his body, his shoulder, and down his arm.
The design does wonders, accentuating each of his…
one…two…is that a fucking eight pack? Couldn’t just settle on having a six-pack.
No. Had to be extra about it. My eyes drift across his Adonis muscles, suddenly aching for the pants to slip a tiny bit lower so I can…
what the fuck is wrong with you, Izabel?
I narrow my eyes and stare at him in disbelief. I’m angry at the buzz of desire that is building inside me.
“Do you want a coffee?” he asks.
“Um…” I stammer, trying to get my thoughts back in place.
“Seems that a little mouse, or maybe a pixie, tampered with the breakers last night. But not to worry, it’ll be sorted within the hour. The guy is already on his way.”
I glare at him. How does this not even ruffle his feathers?
“So, coffee? I got this from Italy. It’s the real deal. Makes a brilliant espresso,” he says, proudly gesturing at the macchiato. When he moves, his muscles ripple over his arm and torso. His bicep flexes, and I bite my lip.
When I realize I’m biting my lip and staring at him like he’s a piece of meat, I’m furious with myself.
“No, I don’t want a damn coffee,” I huff.
“Is something wrong? Did you get enough sleep?” he asks casually. “You know, my mattress is by far the most comfortable in the house, if—”
“Oh, what, you’re going to tell me you’ve slept on all the other mattresses in this house just to make sure?” I snap.
“Try and prove otherwise,” he winks at me. The fucking man winks at me.
I can’t handle the sight of him for another second, so I spin on my heel and storm out of the kitchen. “Enjoy your cold shower!” I shout over my shoulder.
“I have a cold shower every morning, little pixie. You should join me. It’ll help you calm down a little,” he laughs. “There’s a sauna in the pool house, too, if you want to try that out.”
I don’t reply, I just keep stomping up the stairs back to my room. Now I want to shower, and I personally do not like cold showers. I like the cold. I like the snow. But a shower is a thing of comfort.
Angrily, I start muttering under my breath.
“Oh, Mr. Fucking Perfect. So healthy. With his perfect routine, his cold showers in the morning. His perfect abs. His perfect arms. And that perfect stupid smile and the perfect laugh that is far too sexy and…” I flop face-first onto my bed and groan loudly into the pillow. How does he stay so calm?
Dammit, Izabel. Your hormones and your brain cells need to try and align here somehow.
It’s still okay…because he has no idea I’m physically attracted to him. And I am fully aware that it’s meaningless, because he might be pretty to look at, but the man is a grade-A asshole. But if he ever catches on that I think he’s sexy…. No. I would die of embarrassment.
I don’t think I’ve ever hated someone more in my life. So why did he also have to be the most attractive person I’ve ever seen in my life? It’s like the universe is trying to mess with me.
Rolling onto my back, I stare up at the stark white ceiling and the pretty crystal chandelier.
It’s a modern design, but very unusual. By night, it sparkles and casts little fragments of lights over the room that look like stars.
During the day, it catches the sun and reflects rainbows over the walls like it’s doing now.
It’s the exact type of thing I would choose for my room. In fact, exploring his house in search of an escape route over the past few days, I’ve discovered that I really like everything in it. His taste in decor and design and even in the art on the walls actually matches mine.
Annoying myself even more by liking the damn chandelier, I push off the bed to face the cold shower. Maybe it will calm me down. And clear my head. I need another plan.
As I step under the steady stream of water, I yelp in horror. My entire body goes rigid and goosebumps break out over every inch of my skin. There is no possible world in which this is something that would relax me.
I’m in and out in a matter of seconds, swearing at him under my breath as though he’s the one who shut the heater down. Actually, this is all his fault. I shouldn’t even be here.
Angry that I can’t shower, I get dressed in the clothes he so kindly ordered and had delivered here the morning after he brought me to his mansion.
I slip into the jeans, which hug my ass perfectly, and pull on a long-sleeved, soft, pure-cotton top. Over that, I throw my favorite hoodie, which now has a different scent to it. The scent of his laundry detergent, since his housekeeper cleaned it for me.
I pull the hoodie up over my nose and breathe it in. It’s lovely.
Why does it have to be so lovely?
It’s just laundry detergent, Izabel. He probably doesn’t even choose it himself. The housekeeper probably chooses it.
Well, she has good taste.
Suddenly, a new idea sparks, and my entire body is filled with amusement and satisfaction. Oh yes, this one is going to work. There is no way in hell it won’t annoy him.
Hurrying downstairs, I slip into the laundry room. If I recall correctly, there was a load of white shirts waiting to go in this morning.
I giggle when I see the machine on and just starting to fill up. The housekeeper had perfect timing.
Running back to the kitchen, I grab a jar of beetroot from the fridge, then bolt back to the washing machine.
I empty the whole thing into the clothes.
Chunks of beetroot and all the juice start churning over his crisp white shirts.
Armani. Gucci. Louis Vuitton. The works, all turning a beautiful, bright shade of splotchy pink.
Satisfied, I toss the empty jar in the recycling and head up to my room to relax.
Within the hour, Anton is storming into my room, his face clouded with anger.
Finally!
He has one of the shirts gripped in his hands, and as he waves it around, he shouts about how childish I am.
“What was the point of this!?” he asks angrily, standing over my bed and glaring at me.
I shrug, grinning up at him with the book I was reading resting on my lap.
“Every single one of these shirts was tailored!” he blurts out, and I continue to watch calmly, savoring the fact that I finally hit him where it hurt.
He tosses the wet shirt right out of my bedroom door, then turns back to me and leans over the bed.
His face is close to mine when he growls, his eyes flaring with challenge, “Are you begging for my attention, little pixie? Is that what this is all about?” He reaches out and touches my face, sending a warm shiver down my spine.
“Because if you want my attention, there are easier ways to get it,” he muses.
His eyes glimmer with amusement, and all of the joy I felt a moment ago is sucked right out of me like a punch to the gut.
I swat his hand away.
“I’m not begging for your attention!” I say, aggressively denying the suggestion.