Page 19 of The Villain's Captive (The Villain's Duet 1)

8

The water was hot,probably too hot. But I didn’t care. I felt it burn my skin, but it didn’t hurt. I was numb, my mind scattered and empty as water cascaded down my back. There was no telling how long I’d been in the shower. Time no longer mattered. It was ironic how time lost its hold on a person once you no longer had things to do or places to go.

I took the bar of soap, smelling the vanilla scent. A part of me didn’t want to use it, didn’t want its smell to linger on my skin, because he chose it.

Elijah.

Elijah who? Who was this man who claimed to know me better than anyone else? This man who managed to watch me for so long without me even knowing. God, that thought was terrifying, thinking of someone lurking in the corners, watching your every move. The magnitude of the invasion of privacy on that level was almost unfathomable, and it made my stomach turn. All the memories of my everyday life—was he a part of it? He made it clear he was there the days I worked at the Alto, but what about at the bar where I worked nights when the theatre was closed? Was he there? Was his face among the rest of the crowd? Had I served him, handed him a beer, poured him shots? Did he tip me, after which I’d politely thank him?

Jesus. Once you started going down, it was an endless rabbit hole, dissecting everything from something as mundane as going to the grocery store to something as personal and private like going on a date. Was Elijah always fucking there?

The soap slipped from my hand, and I didn’t bother to pick it up. I didn’t want to use his fucking vanilla-scented soap, anyway.

I stepped out of the shower, the entire bathroom steamed up. I wiped the mirror, forming a clear streak so I could see part of my reflection. How many times had he watched me undress? How many times had he seen me naked with the type of confidence that only came when you were alone?

There were just too many questions—questions for which the answers would just branch out to more questions.

When he touched me earlier, the way he moved his hand over the curve of my hip and up my side. It was like he already knew the way, like my body was a map he had already memorized. And when he cupped my breast, kneading, touching, something inside me broke. I was sure of it, because what I felt couldn’t have been normal. My fear collided with fire, causing a hurricane of malignant desire I instantly despised. Surely, something, somewhere inside me had to be broken. No normal human being would find anything alluring about a kidnapper, an abductor who choked his victims and snatched them out of society in such a twisted, vicious way. Not even if he looked like Elijah, like God Himself had carved him from the night sky and adorned him with mysterious allure coated in goddamn perfection.

Maybe it didn’t have anything to do with him at all, and it was just this twisted part of myself I never knew about.

Maybe he knew. The way he stared at me, waiting, watching—something he was so fucking good at—as if he wanted to witness when the realization set in that there was a part of myself I had never known. Why else would my body react with equal parts heat and disgust—liking and despising his touch at the same time?

But that didn’t matter right now. What mattered was that this bone-deep fear I felt, this horrifying uncertainty that filled my insides, I had to fight it. If I wanted to survive whatever the fuck this was, I needed to get my head straight. My mom used to say that one should never fear the unknown, because nothing was more important than conquering the now.

The present.

Live it. Conquer it. Survive it.

Twice I had asked him, begged him to let me go, and he made it clear that it wasn’t an option.

“I won’t beg again,” I whispered to myself as if the woman who stared back at me in the mirror was a complete stranger. Someone I hardly knew. “Not again.” But I would fight him every step of the way, prove to him that I was more than just prey.

I wrapped one of the white towels around me and paused by the door, wondering if he would be in there. I hesitated, the idea of him seeing me in nothing but a towel sending a chill down my back. But then again, he had probably already seen much more of me while I was blissfully unaware.

Steam escaped the bathroom as I opened the door and stepped into the bedroom. My shoulders relaxed when I saw he wasn’t there, yet the three La Boutique bags on the bed proved he had been.

The ceiling lights had been dimmed. The warm yet subtle lighting touched the gray, cool tones of the room, creating a calming atmosphere, especially with nothing covering the windows. The New York skyline was majestic, mesmerizing, creating the illusion of power for whoever stared out across it. The tall buildings, thousands of lights—if wealth had a picture, it would be this.

The bedroom was three times the size of my entire apartment. If this were under any other circumstance, I’d probably be ecstatic, sipping champagne while soaking in the giant spa-bathtub in the bathroom. It was just my fucking luck that the one time I got the chance to experience such luxury was by force and kidnapping.

Fuck you, Murphy.

I let out a sigh and took each bag, one by one, throwing the clothing in one big heap on the bed.

Jeans. Shirts. Blouses. It took me half a glance to know I hated all of it simply because he bought it. It would have been clothing made of gold and silver, I’d still fucking hate it.

I laced a finger through a silk strap, lifting the short, white nightdress. There was barely enough fabric to cover everything that needed to be, well…covered. And not just one. Three. Three goddamn nightgowns, all in white, but different styles.

I tossed all of it to the side and scoffed. He was sorely mistaken if he thought I’d wear those. This was a kidnapping, not a fucking honeymoon.

One powder-blue blouse seemed longer than the others, so I put it on and buttoned it up before slipping a pair of white panties up underneath.

“That color suits you.”

“Jesus Christ!” I yelped and jumped to the other side of the bed, almost choking on a breath. “Elijah.” He was standing in the farthest corner—the one part of the room the lights didn’t touch. “How long have you been there?” My pulse raced.

“Long enough to see that the white nightgowns clearly don’t appeal to you.”

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