Page 8 of Devil of Vegas

Despite my refusal, he sets the tray down and walks over to sit at the edge of my bed. I slide over, not to make room for him but to inch away from the man who I know is capable of doing terrible,violentthings to people.

“Besides, if you don’t eat, then you can’t dance,” he says. His voice sounds strained, but not angry. “Thatisyour passion, is it not?”

“Yes, it is. If I had the energy to dance, I still don’t have a place to do so. Also, my ballet slippers are missing from my dance bag.”

A look of concern crosses his face, then quickly turns into a smirk. “Don’t worry, I’ll bring them to you. Would that make you happy?” Without a chance to respond, Vincent reaches down and gently moves a strand of hair from my face. It’s unexpected, as is the gentleness of his touch, and I stiffen as his fingers tuck the tendril behind my ear. A shiver goes down my spine, and I can’t tell if it’s fear or temptation orboth.

“What’s this?” he asks as the light coming in from the window reveals the tiny tattoo behind my right ear. “A bird in flight—does it mean something?”

I don’t know why I feel so drawn to answering him, but before I can stop myself, my mouth is open, and words are coming out. “It’s a symbol of a promise that I made to myself, a promise that I would never be caged again.”

“I see.” His words are slow and deliberate. His blue eyes cut right into me as I look up at him.

I shouldn’t feel this strange, intoxicating wonder about him. The tension in the air sticks in my throat, and I sit back up again to free my breath.

Vincent doesn’t move to give me any more room. He stays right where he is, with his thigh practically flush with mine. He reaches over and picks something up from the tray, a deep green olive that he rolls between his fingers as he shows it to me.

“This is one of the best olives you’ll ever taste in your life,” he says as he looks at it. “Imported straight from Italy, infused with the finest oil, and stuffed with a perfectly portioned pine nut. Granted, it’s probably not the most nutrient dense piece of food, but we’ll start small with the more delicious things first.”

Vincent holds the olive to my lips and even as I stubbornly refuse, I can feel myself giving in. Not only does the olive look delectable, especially considering how hungry I am. How he is holding it—patiently, hovering just beyond my mouth as if this man is temptation personified—is more than I can take.

I open my mouth slightly, and he slides the olive onto my tongue. It’s every bit as delicious as he described.

“Good girl,” he smiles as he reaches for another one.

I mentally scold myself for enjoying this so much and for letting this gorgeousmonsterfeed me as if I’m his pet. But I can’t help it, despite myself. He’s breaking down my resistance bit by bit with every bite.

He could have barged in here and held me down and shoved food into my mouth. Instead, he did things this way, almosttenderly.

I can’t figure this guy out.

Following a few more delicious bites, just as mouthwatering as the olives, pausing, I inquire.

“Why did you kill that man backstage?” I ask, careful to watch his expression and not push things too far. “Why kill a ballet dancer?”

“That man wasn’t a dancer,” Vincent replies with disdain.

Whoever the man was, he wasn’t part of Madame Durant’s troupe, or I would have known of him personally. And whoever he was, it’s very apparent that Vincent didn’t like him.

“Who was he then?”

“A man without honor. I killed him because he betrayed me, and because betrayal is an unforgivablesin.”

There’s a strange and intense expression in Vincent’s eyes. I can’t quite read what it is. Could he have any sort of moral code of conduct after what he’s done?

“And murder isn’t?” I ask.

“It depends,” he says as he reaches to pull up the blanket to tuck over my legs.

“On what?”

“On whether someone deserves to be killed. I also don’t take kindly to men who bring affairs ofbusinessinto my house of peace at the ballet,” he says. “That’s where I go to calm my mind and appreciatebeautiful things. That man thought he could hide from me there, but he was gravely mistaken, as most are. There is no hiding from men like me.”

My brain is practically screaming at me, telling me that “men like him” are the kind my mother warned me about—the kindthat lurk in the city in dark alleys and underground warehouses, that live in expensive high-rises with paid henchmen guarding the doors. But as Vincent stands up and walks quietly out of my room, lingering at the door to look back at me in my bed, I’m filled with morelongingthan I am apprehension. My stomach is now comfortably full. The warm blanket that he pulled up around me is already coaxing my eyelids to close, and the rest of my body is still tingling from the touch of his fingertips at the side of my neck.

Tonight, I expected hunger pangs and a desperate need for escape from this place. But I find myself fixated on the way he moves as he steps out of the room, and secretly hating myself for craving his touch.

Something about Vincent Moretti is unlocking parts of myself that I never knew were even within me, and I’m not so sure whether that’s a good thing or an extremely dangerous one.

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