Page 43 of Massimo

"Are you alright?" He frowns, shutting the door. "You look flushed. Do you have a fever?"

I jump out of bed, holding up my hands to warn him off from coming closer. He stops but looks like he wants nothing more than to pull me into his arms.

Idiot. He's playing you.He doesn't care about you outside of you being a pawn and a tool against your father.

Another voice in my head joins in, adding to the chaos of warnings and my confusing feelings.Don't show him your fight. Be the meek and docile princess everyone expects.

I lower my eyes and chin. "I'm fine."

"Princess," he says softly. "Please don't do that. Don't wilt and hide from me."

My eyes fill with unbidden tears, and I blink them back. The urge to believe Massimo—to trust that I can be myself with him—is overwhelming and intense.

I keep my head lowered, seeing his shoes appear in my line of vision as he cautiously approaches. His finger gently touches my chin, lifting my face. His thumbs brush under my eyes to gather the unshed tears.

"Get dressed, Nova." His face is unreadable, but his voice and eyes are gentle. "Then we'll have some breakfast."

He's essentially given me a command, and I'm conditioned to obey. I walk to the closet and flick on the light.

Anger coils in my gut that I just obeyed, like a damn puppy being trained to follow orders. And as I stare around the closet, my anger increases, and my hands curl into first.

The closet is full of designer clothes. Beautiful, stunning clothes fit for a princess.

Just like the Mancini Princess would wear.

What I wouldn't give to shred every article of clothing in here.

I push away the urge to do just that. I take deep, calming breaths until my anger is under control—and until I’m sure I won’t destroy thousands of dollars’ worth of clothing.

Scanning the closet again, I see all the clothes still have the tags and look to be my size.

More confusing feelings are added to the mix—why would Massimo spend thousands of dollars for a full wardrobe for his captive?

Pushing my confusion aside, I scan the closet again and see my duffel bag in the corner. I grab it and take out some of my own clothes; the high-waisted, light-wash jeans I'd bought in Italy, along with silk panties and a matching bra, and the well-worn men's T-shirt that had belonged to my mom. I had salvaged it before the staff removed all her belongings, barely an hour after her funeral.

I quickly get dressed. The shirt way to big on me, and I need to find something to tie it up at my waist. I could bunch and knot it, but I don't want to stretch or ruin the excessively worn material I've cherished for a decade.

When I exit the closet, Massimo is leaning against the wall, reading something on his phone.

The man is criminal.

Yes, I know he'sacriminal, but dear God, the man is a work of art. Gorgeous. Massive. Lethal.

His head lifts, and his eyes lock on me. My breath hitches, then stops completely when he steps toward me, his eyes and face flashing with rage, his nostrils flaring.

I stumble back as the warning bells clang in my head.

I don't know what I did to anger him, but it's obvious I did something.

"Take. That. Off."

Okay, we're back to the stripping thing, which I stupidly thought we were done with.

But rather than wilt and hide from him, I stiffen my spine as the fire and fight don't just spark to life inside me, but they burn like an inferno.

I don't think, I just react.

"No."

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