Page 25 of Captive Vows
I lifted my head to shoot him a look. “She’s not that kind of a dancer.” Nothing about the way Gabriella moved suggested that. She wasn’t an exotic performer. She wasn’t grinding and hinting at anything. “She’s an artist.” Her passion was obvious.
I made a mental note to have music sent to her, perhaps on a new phone that I could track. She hadn’t left her room yet. The more I watched her and wanted to experience her stubbornness and passion, the more I readied myself to release her to the rest of my home.
“She’s a debt paid from a rat,” Emil reminded me dryly.
I hadn’t asked for a reality check but he’d given me one anyway.
“She could be a debt payment of my own,” I muttered. Gabriella was gorgeous, and that alone would fetch a nice price for her. This show of her passion and skill for dancing just made her more expensive.
“You’d sell her?” he asked, watching her dance in the room.
I shrugged. “I have no plans yet.” Other than appreciating more of her defiance, I wasn’t prepared to claim my intention with her. “But I could.” I could definitely sell her or give her away. I took things. I was always the one in control, but I could just imagine the interest other men might send her way. She could be a critical tool of leverage. A delicious carrot to dangle and entice even my worst enemies.
Rubbing my jaw slowly, I sighed and dismissed any hurry to make up my mind about what to do with her yet.
All I could make a move on right now was this intrigue. This curiosity.
This desire to watch her more up close.
The next evening, I went to her room and opened the door. After I stepped in, I leaned against the doorframe, teasing her by leaving it open. She wouldn’t get past me.
The second I ended her privacy, she stopped. Breathing hard from the exercise of dancing, she glowered at me.
Her huge breasts heaved. Her slim waist remained flat. Her legs, so slender, ceased moving. But it was her eyes that captured me. Those dark, rebellious eyes. Her lips stayed parted, but the longer I stared her down, they turned into a scowl.
“What?” she snapped.
I crossed my arms. “Nothing.”
“What do you want?”
“What makes you think I want anything?”
She rolled her eyes. “This question-for-an-answer shit won’t bother me.” She shrugged, but it seemed more like she was rolling her shoulders in a stretch.
I didn’t leave. Merely staring at each other, we entered a tense test of who’d break first. I knew she would.
“What do you want?”
I considered the repetition of her question. What did I want? Where she was concerned, I wasn’t sure.
“Dance.” That was my reply, though.
She barked a wry laugh. “For you?” She stepped toward her bed where a hand towel waited for her. As she wiped the sweat from her brow, she smirked. “No.”
“You don’t want to dance for me?”
“As if I haven’t been already.” She gestured vaguely at the room. “As if you don’t have surveillance on my room. You’ve seen me dance enough.”
“So, you’ll stop? You’ll quit?”
She slitted her eyes. “Never. But I won’t dance foryou.” With that, she turned and hid in the bathroom.
Stubborn brat.
The next night was the same. In my office, seated in front of my computer, I’d watch her dance until I couldn’t take it anymore. Then the second I opened her door, she’d stop, huff or growl in frustration, and leave to go to the bathroom.
After two weeks of captivity here, it never changed. With me, she was sullen. For me, she was tough and sassy, not backing down at all. Each time she was rude to me, she antagonized me and pushed me that much more to make her break. Whether I came to watch her dance—not that she would for me—or to bring her a meal, she was tough.
