Page 15 of Stolen By the Enemy

I have no idea if she’s brave enough to try and escape as I’m coming in, but I’m not in the mood to deal with her if she is.

After her little performance last night, and seeking out every possible escape route, I realize I’m going to need to quiet her down. Or lock her up tighter.

This house is secluded, but there’s still public areas on the beach where people could hear her.

And while my men are securing the outside of the property, I don’t need her getting hurt if she tries to escape.

Then I’d have to find a doctor to come and help her, which isn’t ideal.

The house is silent, with the only light coming from the kitchen.

I know she’s around, but I wonder if she is trying to hide away from me.

I’m not worried about a surprise attack, because she’s so small that I would just need to pick her up off the ground and she wouldn’t be able to do much to me.

I walk through the hallway and call her name again.

No reply.

I’m also going to need to teach her who she’s dealing with, because I do not take kindly to being ignored in my own house.

I’m not here to fight with her, but I know I need to get information out of her.

With her brothers remaining quiet, I need to know what their weak points are, in case I need to use them.

But I have a feeling that she’s not going to give me any information she doesn’t have to offer.

“Marco.” She bumps into me as she comes out of the bathroom in nothing but a towel. Shit.

I didn’t come here for that pussy, but if she’s going to flaunt it in my face, I may not be able to control myself.

“Go get dressed,” I tell her, walking into the kitchen and away from her so that the temptation isn’t so close at hand.

“Um, I was about to.” Her tone is snarky, making me want to slap that look of disgust off her face.

But it’s also making me want to rip the towel off her body.

“Well, hurry up. We need to talk.”

I grab a bottle of wine from the top of the kitchen cupboard and pour myself a glass.

I don’t pour for her, just in case the alcohol makes her cheekier than she is already.

“Oh, and you can’t talk to me in a towel?”

Her tone switches up to flirty much too quickly. I can see the sly smile on her face in the reflection in the kitchen window.

I fight the smile trying to show up on my own face.

“Grazia. Go and get some fucking clothes on.” My tone is sharp, and I can tell that she picks up on that.

Her expression drops, like a child who has just been scolded. She turns around and heads to the bedroom.

A few minutes later, she joins me in the kitchen wearing jeans and a tank top but clearly no bra, her hard nipples are practically saluting me and I change my mind about the alcohol.

I hand her the glass of wine. She takes it but looks suspicious.

“It’s not laced with anything,” I assure her. “I need you awake and talking now, not drugged and passed out. Let’s go chat in the living room.”

---