Page 77 of The Devil's Deal

She doesn’t even move as I leave, her back to me, her body still as I shut the door behind me, wanting more than anything to walk back in and tell her I’m sorry.

Chapter Twenty-One

Chiara

I hate him.I hate him, yet I want him, and I despise feeling this way. When I decided to go topless yesterday, I knew what I was doing. I knew his men would call him. That he’d come.

When he looked at me without my clothes on, it was through the eyes of a man who wanted what he couldn’t have, but wouldn’t allow anyone else to have it either.

There was jealousy. Possession. Just like I knew there would be.

I’m usually good at reading people, and Brian Smith—which I don’t believe for a second is his real name—is not hard to read.

He’s running on bottled-up pain, an intimate part of himself he won’t allow anyone to see. It’s obvious from the way he lives that he doesn’t let a soul get close enough to unearth the fortress he’s built around himself.

He’s strong.

Powerful.

But unclothe his armor, and I bet you’d find a scared little boy.

I don’t feel sorry for him, though. My father may have taken people he loved, but that doesn’t excuse him kidnapping me, nor denying the fucking orgasm he owes me. I’ll be paying him back for that. I just haven’t figured out how.

I thought seducing him would be easy. I thought finding a home in his bed would be simple. But he’s proven me wrong.

Every time I think I’ve won, he’s a step ahead. Now I’ll probably never get out of here.

* * *

He’s avoided me all day. I’m not even sure he came home last night. Not that I give a shit. I’m all alone in this giant house with nothing to do and no one to speak to. I could strike up another conversation with Miles, the giant statue of a man, but I have a feeling he’d rather not talk to me, so as to not upset his precious boss.

I wander around the house, finding spaces not occupied by Smith’s obedient foot soldiers. Walking down a wide hallway on the other end of the kitchen, I find locked door after door, wondering what could be inside each one.

And just as I’m about to give up and go to my room, I find a library all the way at the end to the right. My heart’s paralyzed with excitement as I stare through the glass door, finding a huge ceiling-to-floor bookshelf on each side, with a gray ladder next to the left.

In the middle lies a glossy black coffee table and four cushioned ivory armchairs. I step closer, wanting inside.

Would he care if I went in? Do I even care if he does? And what the hell is he doing with a library? Does he even read?

Fuck it.

I tiptoe another step, my hand on the door now, and I open it.

“Wow,” I mutter when I discover that it’s a two-story library, completely mesmerized.

The spiral staircase leads upstairs to shelf after shelf of more books than I’ve ever seen in a home.

I used to love books as a child, and that love hasn’t died. Reading is my passion. A way to decompress. Romance, thrillers, I don’t care. I read it all.

I gently glide the door back to a close and take tentative steps inside. Running nervous hands down the black spaghetti-strap jersey dress I have on, I walk over to the right, feathering my fingertips across the spine of the books there, wanting to consume every word.

I make it to the end, and that’s when I realize there’s another large area behind the bookshelf, one with an L-shaped ivory sofa and a bar full of liquor bottles behind it.

Books and booze? I think I’ve found my new room. I could use some strong alcohol in my life right about now. Other than red wine at home or a shot or two at work on occasion, I don’t overindulge. But with the state of my life at the moment, I should probably chug a bottle of vodka.

Practically running toward the black leather bar, I pick up a shot glass and the closest bottle, reading the label.

Bowmore Islay Scotch Whiskey

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