Page 16 of The Villain's Captive (The Villain's Duet 1)

7

Roasted chickenwith asiago polenta and truffled mushrooms. That was what I wanted to make for dinner, because ever since her mother died, Charlotte lived off cereal, simple fruit, and instant microwavable meals.

When was the last time she had a decent meal? A homemade meal that tasted like food and not cardboard? Apart from the life that I lived outside this apartment, cooking was my passion. To me, there was so much more to food than just filling your belly. It was about experiencing the bursting of flavors on your tongue, tasting the quality ingredients and savoring every bite.

Part of me knew my love for food probably stemmed from a childhood of going to bed on an empty stomach daily.

I was busy chopping thyme when I glanced at the skinned chicken breasts. Charlotte wasn’t the type of woman to be impressed by fancy dining and elegant dinners. I was doing this more for myself than for her, thinking feeding her quality food would somehow be the first brick laid on my path to redemption.

Good God. Redemption for a man like me wasn’t fucking possible, so I was just wasting my goddamn time, hence the reason I tossed it all in the garbage.

I waited by the foyer when the elevator opened, Josh appearing with a pizza box in hand.

“You ordered a pizza?” Disbelief clung to his arched ginger brow. Understandably.

Being the head of security, and the only fucking person I trusted in this city, Josh knew my opinion on pizza. And it was simple…

Pizza is not food.

At least, not the takeout kind.

I took the box from him. “It’s not for me.”

“Then who—”

“None of your goddamn business. Listen,” I wiped at my chin, “did you do everything I asked you to?”

“Everything is arranged.”

“Did you double security?”

“Yes, sir. And I have three unmarked black vehicles standing by and ready to leave at any moment.”

“Good.” I turned my back on him, a silent dismissal. In my profession, it would be reckless and stupid not to have the best security measures in place. Finding the cracks in any type of protection detail was easy for a man like me.

The smell of garlic and oregano filled my nostrils, the box still warm from the freshly made pizza. I never quite understood the love people had for what was nothing more than a sphere of dough with a fuckton of melted cheese. And all those different toppings? How were you supposed to taste anything when there were so many different flavors all mashed up together?

I unlocked the bedroom door and walked in, finding Charlotte standing by the window, staring out. Raven strands of braided hair cascaded down her back, but so many of her wild curls had already escaped, falling in disarray around her shoulders. All this was part of a well-thought-out plan which had been in the making for years, an inevitable contract—but I was still a man who knew when to appreciate an innocent beauty that wasn’t forced or flaunted.

The black denims she wore were torn at the seams around her ankles, the faded color giving away its age. In all this time I’d watched her, it was clear that Charlotte chose comfort above fashion. That, or maybe it was just the fact that she couldn’t afford anything other than a few pairs of jeans and hoodies. But my guess was, even if she could afford designer labels, she’d still opt for the comfort of the no-name brands.

“Dinner,” I stated, and she glanced over her shoulder.

“You probably won’t be surprised if I say I’m not hungry.”

I placed the cardboard box down on the side table set next to the leather couch. “You have to eat.”

“You know,” she turned to face me with her arms crossed, “there’s something about being kidnapped that kills one’s appetite.”

Her sarcastic tone earned an unamused glare from me. “Sarcasm is a cheap way to hide unintelligence.”

“Kidnapping is a sure sign of mental instability.”

“Then I guess we both have our…weaknesses. You know,” I gestured toward the pizza, “the human body can only feed off adrenaline for so long. Sooner or later, your body will need more than mere determination and stubbornness to survive. And who knows,” I sat down on the couch, “maybe I won’t feel like feeding you then.”

The way she bit her bottom lip, her silence stretching for miles, was a sure sign that she knew I had won this round. Before too long, she’d realize there was no negotiating, bargaining, or sparring with me.

“Besides,” I lightened the conversation with half a grin, “I got your favorite. Pepperoni with extra garlic.”

---