Page 8 of Bound Vows
“Yes?” I breathe.
“You fascinate me.”
Before I can respond, Andre’s fingers brush against the nape of my neck with feather-light pressure. The touch sends electricity through my nervous system, but something else comes with it: a strange tingling sensation that spreads outward from the point of contact.
“What—” I start to ask, but the words feel thick and clumsy in my mouth.
Andre’s free hand moves to steady me as the ballroom begins to tilt at impossible angles. The faces around us blur into a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes, and my legs suddenly feel like they’re made of water.
“Don’t fight it.” Andre’s voice sounds as if it’s coming from the bottom of a well. “This will be much easier if you don’t fight it.”
I try to pull away from him, but my body won’t obey my commands. My vision narrows to a tunnel with Andre’s blue eyes at the center, and even they’re starting to fade around the edges.
“You drugged me,” I manage to say, even as my tongue feels three times its normal size.
“A mild sedative. Nothing permanent.” Andre’s arm tightens around my waist, supporting my weight as my knees buckle. “We need to have a conversation, Maya, and you wouldn’t have come willingly.”
The ballroom spins lazily around me, and I’m vaguely aware of other dancers moving away from us. Someone laughs nearby, probably assuming I’ve had too much champagne. If only they knew.
“My brother?—”
“Will receive word that you felt ill and left early.” Andre moves us toward the edge of the dance floor. His movements are so smooth that anyone watching would think he’s simply escorting his tipsy dance partner to somewhere she can sit down. “Don’t worry. This won’t hurt.”
Two men in expensive suits appear at Andre’s shoulders, flanking us as we leave the dance floor. They look like security or bodyguards, but their positioning is too tactical for civilian protection. These men are soldiers, and they’re here to ensure I don’t cause problems.
“Sleep now, Maya,” Andre urges as the world fades to black around the edges. “When you wake up, we’ll discuss your future.”
Chapter 4
Andrei
Consciousness returns to Maya Mastroni like a reluctant tide, and I study her face with the same fascination I normally reserve for a rare painting.
She lies on the white silk sheets of my guest bedroom, still wearing the beaded Valentino gown from last night’s gala.
The black fabric latches to her curves in all the right places, and thousands of tiny crystals catch the morning sunlight streaming through the windows, creating patterns of fractured light across her skin.
Even unconscious and restrained, Maya Mastroni is a work of art—deadly, beautiful, and out of place on my pristine white bedding.
This close, I catch sight of the faintest scar on her collarbone. It’s old, but I bet there’s one hell of a story behind it.
I left her fully clothed out of courtesy. This negotiation requires her attention, and sexual intimidation would only muddy the waters. Besides, I prefer my conquests to be willing, even when willingness requires careful persuasion.
Maya’s dark curls spread across the pillow like spilled ink, and her breathing remains deep and even despite the restraints that secure her wrists to the headboard. The zip ties are strong enough to hold her, but padded to prevent damage. I need her hands intact for what comes next.
“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” I coo when her eyelids begin to flutter.
Her emerald eyes snap open immediately, searching the unfamiliar room with a tactical awareness that impresses me despite the circumstances. Maya tests the restraints with subtlety, gauging their strength while maintaining the pretense of just waking up.
“Where am I?” Her voice carries none of the grogginess I’d expect from someone recovering from sedation. Professional training runs deep in this family.
“My penthouse. Specifically, the guest bedroom designed for visitors who might not initially appreciate the accommodations. Though I think you’ll find the amenities acceptable.”
Maya pulls against the restraints, harder this time, and when they hold firm, she fixes me with a glare that could melt steel. “Let me go.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible. We have business to discuss, and you strike me as someone who might leave before hearing my proposal.”
“What proposal?” She adjusts her position, testing whether the headboard has any give. It doesn’t; I’ve learned from experience that cheap furniture doesn’t survive determined prisoners.
