Page 21 of The Villain's Captive (The Villain's Duet 1)

I licked my lips. “It’s personal.”

“What is?” His voice dipped low with a sultry tenor.

“Playing.” I swallowed. “It’s personal to me.”

“Why?”

“Jesus,” I yelled. “It’s the way it affects me, okay? How it allows me to escape. It’s not something I want to share with anyone.”

“Why not?” He shifted closer, taking up more air with his musky scent. “Why don’t you want to share it?”

“Because when I play, I’m at my most vulnerable, and I don’t want to share that part of myself with anyone.”

“So, what you’re saying is,” he took one more step, and I had to crane my neck to look him in the eye as he stared down at me like a mountain of menace, “you shared your most vulnerable self with…me.” The low, seductive thrum in his voice trickled across the naked flesh of my throat, and I swallowed hard, hyperaware of how he dominated the space around us.

“I didn’t share it with you.” I lifted my chin in a desperate attempt to show defiance. “You took it.”

“I’m known to take what I want.”

“So, you’re not just a stalker and a psychopath, you’re a thief too.”

His top lip curled in a sinful smirk. “I’m sure during our time together you’ll realize I’m a lot of other things as well.”

There was no telling whether it was meant to be a threat or not. If I needed to fear those other things. It would probably be safer if I did—to expect the worst.

“Here.” He handed me the nightgown. “I might be a lot of things, but I am a man of my word. A deal is a deal.”

Hesitant, I took the silk garment from him, yet there was no haste to put it on. Somehow, I had forgotten about the fact that I was half-naked, too entranced by the presence of my captor.

He glanced at the cello, and I expected him to press the matter—to force me to play for him like he did after he brought me here. But he didn’t. Instead, he turned and headed toward the door.

“Do you play?” The words slipped mindlessly out of my mouth, and I caught myself stepping closer.

He stilled, his shoulders broad, tips of his hair touching the back of his collar. Without turning, he answered, “I don’t. But I do share your appreciation for music.”

Nervously, I twirled my fingers together. “Why me? Why spend all that time,” I swallowed, “observing me?”

He glanced halfway over his shoulder, his jaw square and strong. For a second, I was sure he’d answer, but he merely let out a breath and walked out, his exit followed by the click of the lock. A cold, harrowing reminder that I was a prisoner…and nothing more.

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