Page 40 of Sinister Intentions

I swam us over to the shallow end and planted my feet on the bottom so I could better support her weight.

“Look at me,” I commanded, leaning forward to hold her gaze while gripping the chair and her firmly. “You’re safe, I’m notgoing to hurt you. Just focus on breathing, and don’t hurt either one of us when I untie you.”

Jemma’s chest was heaving as she gulped down air, her body shivering from the chill of the air, which was colder than the water.

For a split second, the urge to pull her closer, to keep her warm and pressed against my body, was overpoweringly strong.

And then, slowly, ever so slowly, she narrowed her wide eyes, shock replaced by anger.

I’d never thought I would be happy to see Jemma Donnelly furious.

But here we were. Wet, out of breath, and I welcomed her fury. Celebrated it.

Everything was better than what I’d just witnessed, actually. But seeing the spark enter her eyes—that was even better.

I’d pick her fighting me over witnessing that pain in her eyes every time.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The cool water hit me like a slap to the face and jolted me out of the strange out-of-body state I’d been trapped in.

For a brief moment, everything faded away—the fear, the confusion, the sense of being utterly lost. All that existed was the cold liquid enveloping my body.

It was a strange sensation to float while still unable to move my hands or legs. Strange and peaceful.

Until I was dragged back up to the surface again.

I gasped as soon as I broke through the surface, and the chilly air stole my breath.

My eyes found Vince, whose face was only inches from mine.

“God, you’re a piece of work!” he barked, treading water right next to me.

His dark, usually slicked-back hair was plastered all over his face, and rivulets streamed down his sharp jawline.

He looked like a wet dog. A fluffy wet dog.

That thought, as ridiculous as it was, realigned the world in an instant, and the gravity of the situation came crashing back.

I just had a full-blown panic attack. So bad that none of the techniques I’d learned to self-regulate worked.

And he was here. Vince Salvini, the man I’d been trying so desperately to outsmart. The very person who posed the greatest threat to my freedom and safety.

“Look at me,” he commanded and leaned forward. Our gazes locked, and I saw something flicker in those piercing, almost-black eyes—concern or maybe even a hint of tenderness?

Whatever made him look at me that way was in stark contrast to the steely resolve and iciness I’d come to expect from him.

For a fleeting moment, I caught a glimpse of the man beneath the ruthless exterior—like I did in my room when the door hit me in the forehead.

“You’re safe; I’m not going to hurt you. Just focus on breathing and don’t hurt either one of us when I untie you.”

Then he shook his head, sending droplets of water in my direction, effectively ending our staring contest.

I closed my eyes, and realization struck me like a physical blow.

Vince Salvini had witnessed my breakdown.

Wait, he was the one who staged this kidnapping, so he was responsible for my breakdown.

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