Page 35 of Captive Vows
“It’s semantics that matter,” I protested, fed up and unsure whether I was being problematic for the hell of it. It seemed like I was getting too comfortable and losing my edge to fight back and keep an escape plan in the back of my mind.
I couldnotbe softening toward him.
I couldnotbe okay with being placed here against my will.
No matter how grateful I was for the food and place to rest, for being spared creeps like Tony, I wasn’t going to be deluded into thinking it was acceptable to be kidnapped.
“Calling me a guest is a joke.”
“Youarea guest in my home,” he argued back as he tossed his napkin to the table.
“I’m not. You kidnapped me. And you’re keeping me here against my will. There is no other way to paint that picture.” I threw my napkin down to the table as I stood. Before he could get another word in, I turned and left.
I hadn’t walked away from him yet.
I hadn’t had the last word.
Only now did I have the courage to leave the dining room before he’d excused me or escorted me out. Taking back that little bit of control felt good, but as I marched out of there to go back to my room, I hated how bratty I sounded. How defiant I was to push back.
He didn’t speak to me all day, sending me a text on the phone he gave me that he’d be gone for lunch and dinner.
“Shit. Heismad.” I shook my head and focused on dancing. Worrying about whether my captor was mad had to be the joke of the century.
He was the enemy. He was the bad guy. Or, at least, he was supposed to be. Something was getting awfully twisted in this narrative if I was starting to see him in a good light.
As the hours passed by, I dreaded the possibility that he could seriously be upset and irritated with me. He was still a Mafia boss. He was the leader of the Dubinins. The man ordered people killed. He’d killed people, probably with his bare hands.
And here I was, the moron to think I could push him and stand up for myself about terminology.
When he showed up in my room later that evening, his thunderous expression alarmed me.
“Hey!” I jumped back, jarred from the concentration I’d locked into to perfect my steps.
“Come on.”
“What? No. It’s not dinnertime anymore. Or—” Anything else I could’ve tried to say was lost. He grabbed my wrist and urged me to go with him. “Wait! What’s going on?”
“You’ll see,” he bit out impatiently.
“But—” I growled, digging in my feet.
“No.” He shook his head, doubling back to hold on to me. “Do you want to walk?” Dipping lower, he aimed to pick me up. “Or do I have to carry you?”
“What?” I squeaked, alarmed when he crouched low to hoist me over his shoulder. “Hey!” I slapped at his shoulder as he nearly picked me up. “What are you doing?”
I couldn’t tell if he was mad or what. All I could do was try my hardest not to let him see me smile. Like this, he was almost playful. Maybe that was just in my head, though, because every time he touched me felt like a new adventure in which I had to decide whether I wanted to enjoy the feel of his fingers or hands on me or not.
“I am trying to show you something.” Realizing I was too quick to escape him from picking me up, he pivoted us until he’d spun me. With my back pressed to his chest, he could band his arm around my stomach and walk me forward.
I was trapped, moving with him, and I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t feelallof him. His muscled thighs behind my legs. His rock-hard wall of abs bracing me. His thick arm heavy over my stomach. His hand over my chest. His…
Oh, God. No. Don’t think about that.
With every step we took, the bulge of his dick was there too, pressing against my backside. He wasn’t hard, but I could still feel him. The implication of him.
“You weren’t kidding when you said you’d never agree with me,” he growled as he walked me toward another room.
Now, because my back was to him, I gave in to a small smile. “Nope. I wasn’t.”
