Page 3 of Savage Don's Captive

“I come to watch the show.”

“The show?”

“You watch long enough, you’ll catch it—threats dressed up as flirting, deals sealed with a look, men signing their death warrant with one wrong touch.” He smirks, low and cold. “And that’s before the real show starts.”

I swallow, keeping my expression neutral. “The real show?”

His lips curl into a smirk. “You’ll see.”

I should finish my drink, get my quote, and disappear. But there’s something in his gaze that makes my skin prickle—like he already knows exactly who I am, and he’s waiting for me to admit it.

I set my bourbon down, my fingers steady despite the heat rising in my chest. “And *who,* exactly, are you?”

He exhales another slow drag of smoke. “Someone you should stay far away from.”

He shifts just enough for the low light to catch the faint scar along his jaw—old, well-earned, the kind that comes from a blade and not an accident. He doesn’t bother hiding it—wearing his pasts in plain sight, daring me to ask. I roll my eyes.

“Wow. Original. Let me guess—you’re the dark and dangerous type? The kind I should be terrified of but just can’t seem to resist?” His gaze dips, slow and deliberate, before dragging back up to mine.

The way he looks at me—like he’s already decided exactly what he wants to do with me—makes my stomach tighten.

I fight the urge to step back. “You’re a little brat…aren’t you?” he says, voice dropping lower.

“And you’re a judgemental asshole.” I match his intensity, refusing to be intimidated.

He leans in closer, close enough that I can smell the expensive cologne beneath the cigar smoke. “You’re going to end up in someone’s bed tonight either drugged or dead,” he mutters.

My journalist instincts flare to life. “They kill people here?” This is it…the juicy bits I need to ace this article.

His expression darkens. “It’s not like it’s going to be the firsttime it’s happened here. If you do end up dead, I hope no one’s gonna’ miss you.”

I should be running for the exit. Instead, I find myself leaning slightly toward him, drawn to the danger like a moth to flame.

He studies me for a moment, taking a long drag of his cigarillo before tapping the ash into a nearby tray.

“Something tells me you’re not very good at following advice,piccola.” His accent caresses the Italian word, making it sound like an intimate secret between us.

“Don’t call me that.” I hate how my voice lacks conviction.

“What should I call you then?” He leans closer, invading my space with a confidence that says he’s used to getting answers.

I hesitate, curiosity battling against my better judgment. “Alessa,” I breathe, knowing it’s a mistake even as I say it.

“Alessa,” he tastes my name like fine wine, I’m Dom.”

“Just Dom?” I ask, trying to regain some control over the conversation. His smile turns enigmatic. “For tonight.”

“What gave it away?”

He taps ash from his cigarillo, watching me with something dangerously close to amusement. “The fact that you haven’t run yet.”

And that’s the moment I realize—he’s testing me.

He’s waiting to see how long I last before I break, before I run back to whatever safe, sensible world he thinks I come from. I should step away right now. Stick to the plan and just get it over with.

When he lifts his glass, waiting, something reckless stirs in my blood.

Just one drink. Just one conversation. What’s the worst that could happen?

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