Page 25 of Ruined

I glance at her swimming in my T-shirt, the hem reaching almost to her knees. Something possessive stirs in me at the sight.

"I don't know," I say, opening the refrigerator. "I think you look good in my clothes."

She rolls her eyes but the flush creeping up her neck betrays her. "You would."

I pull out eggs, bacon, bread. "Coffee?"

"God, yes." She slides onto a barstool at the kitchen island, watching me with wary curiosity. "I didn't expect you to cook."

"What did you expect? That I'd call for room service?"

"I thought maybe you had people for that. Minions or whatever."

I crack eggs into a bowl. "Sorry to disappoint. Just me."

"And Matteo," she adds.

"Matteo isn't my minion." I glance at her. "He's more like... an annoying brother I never wanted."

That earns me another almost-smile. "So you do have relationships. I was beginning to wonder if you were just a robot, programmed to kidnap musicians."

"Only the pretty ones," I say before I can stop myself.

Her eyes widen slightly and for a while neither of us speaks. I turn back to the stove, focusing on the eggs instead of the way her lips parted in surprise.

"How do you like your coffee?" I ask, changing the subject.

"Black," she says. "Like your soul."

This time I laugh out loud, surprising both of us. "Careful, Evelyn. That almost sounded like you have a sense of humor."

"Don't get used to it," she says, but there's something lighter in her voice now. "I still hate you."

"Noted." I slide a mug of coffee across to her. "Drink your hate-fuel."

I push the empty plate away, my stomach finally satisfied despite the chaos of my situation. The eggs were perfect—I hate that I have to admit it. Noah leans against the counter, his dark eyes tracking my every move like I'm the prey he's still deciding how to devour.

"Play for me."

The words hang in the air between us. I look up, mug frozen halfway to my mouth with the last sip of coffee.

"What?"

"Your violin." Noah nods toward the case I've kept within arm's reach since arriving. "I want to hear you play."

A strange feeling washes over me—not fear exactly, but something deeper. More intimate. The thought of playing for him, here in this prison of luxury, feels wrong. My violin is mine. The one thing that truly belonged to me, even when my father dictated every other aspect of my life.

"No." The word comes out firmer than I expect.

Noah's eyebrow rises slightly. "No?"

"I'm not a circus animal that performs on command." I set the cup down with a clunk. "You kidnapped me. You don't get to demand a private concert."

He crosses his arms, muscles shifting under his shirt. "I've heard you play before."

"That was different."

"How?"

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