Page 27 of Ruined

I want to slap that smug look off his face. Instead I march past him toward the bedroom, the only place I might find a moment's peace.

"Running away?" he calls after me.

"From you? Absolutely."

I hear him chuckle behind me. "You can run. But there's nowhere to hide in my apartment."

I whirl around, finding him closer than I expected. "Do you practice these lines in the mirror? Or do they come naturally to all kidnappers?"

Something dangerous flashes in his eyes, but his voice remains playful. "Special talent. I save my best material for the beautiful ones."

"I'm flattered," I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "Now leave me alone."

"This is my apartment."

"And I'm your unwilling guest, so show some manners."

Noah steps closer, invading my space. "I showed manners by cooking you breakfast."

"Congratulations on meeting the bare minimum of human decency."

We're standing so close I can smell his cologne that makes my head swim. His eyes drop to my lips again and for one terrifying instant I think he might kiss me.

More terrifying: I might let him.

I back away quickly, turning toward the bedroom. "I need space."

"Whatever you need, Evelyn," he says, his voice a low rumble that follows me down the hall.

I reach the bedroom and slam the door behind me, the sound echoing through the apartment like a gunshot.

Noah's laughter follows me like a ghost. The sound crawls under my skin, making me want to scream into one of his down pillows. But I won't give him that satisfaction.

I pace the room instead, my hands balled into fists. My violin case sits on the bed where I left it, the only familiar thing in this beautiful prison. I run my fingers over the worn leather, finding comfort in its texture.

"Breathe, Evelyn," I say to myself. "Just breathe."

But my lungs feel constricted, and not just from fear. It's him. The way he looks at me like he can see right through me. The way his voice drops when he says my name. The way his presence fills a room even after he's left it.

I press my forehead against the cool windowpane, looking out at the New York skyline. Somewhere out there Jessica is probably worried sick. My father is probably furious that I missed whatever performance he scheduled without telling me. And Ivan... I shudder thinking about what would have happened if his men had succeeded.

Noah's right about one thing—Ivan is dangerous. But trading one captor for another isn't freedom.

I hear Noah moving around in the living room, the soft sounds of someone completely at ease in their environment. How can he be so calm when he's turned both our lives upside down?

My reflection stares back at me from the window—hair still damp from this morning's shower, wearing clothes that aren't mine, in an apartment I never chose to enter. Yet beneath the obvious distress in my eyes, there's something else. Something I don't want to acknowledge.

Attraction.

I close my eyes, disgusted with myself. Stockholm syndrome, that's what this is. A psychological response. It doesn't mean anything.

But when I picture Noah's dark eyes, the curve of his mouth when he almost-smiles, the way his hands move confidently while cooking breakfast... my body responds in ways my mind protests against.

"Stop it," I hiss at myself, pushing away from the window.

I need to focus on escape, not on the man keeping me here. No matter how he makes my pulse race. No matter how safe I felt falling asleep knowing he was watching over me.

That's the most dangerous thought of all—the idea that I might be safer with Noah than without him.

---