Page 27 of The Villain's Captive (The Villain's Duet 1)

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I could hear it,the rich, stately sound of a cello playing far away in the distance. It reached for me, wanting to envelop my soul and create a hunger in me to play, touch the strings and allow its music to carry me away.

It reminded me of her—of how she’d play for me every night before bedtime. It was the most beautiful music I had ever heard, not because of the instrument, but because of her—how her love for playing echoed in every sound.

My mother had been my tutor from the day my arms were long enough to hug the cello. The first lesson she taught me was that the cello could not be mastered, it could only be danced with while its music effortlessly guided you to where it wanted to go. Not to where you wanted to take it.

I opened my eyes and stared at an unfamiliar dressing table of bold mahogany wood. My fingers were stiff, my joints flaming hot like a coal had been lit inside them. I eased my hand into a fist and gently opened it again, slowly warming the muscles so the pain would subside. Rheumatoid arthritis—the irony in a cellist player’s life.

I pushed myself up, my head pounding and mouth dry. My insides turned, and nausea curdled in my stomach as bits and pieces of my memory trickled back, until it all gushed toward a reality I’d much rather have forgotten.

Elijah.

Josh.

Blood.

Needle.

I grabbed my arm, remembering the way it burned, how Elijah held me against him so I couldn’t move.

“Jesus.” I breathed and placed a palm on my forehead and glanced down, the unfamiliar navy-blue sheets jumping out at me.

Where am I?

I launched out of bed, the white nightgown fanning around my legs. This wasn’t the bedroom Elijah had me in the first time I woke up trapped in this goddamn nightmare. The walls consisted of mahogany wood panels, two single plush chairs placed on either side of the bed. The carpet beneath my feet was soft, warm, and under-bed lighting illuminating the floor area.

“You’re awake.”

His voice forced a cold chill down my neck, and I turned to see him standing by the door, leaning against the frame, the epitome of sophistication and poise. One would never think he was a cruel kidnapper who suffocated his victims and shot men without blinking.

“You drugged me.”

He shrugged, nonchalant, as if drugging and abducting women was part of his fucking daily routine.

I glanced around. “Where are we?”

He straightened the sleeves of his black dress shirt and strolled into the bedroom, his increasing proximity forcing me to step back, watching him like he could turn into a poisonous viper at any moment.

“Italy.”

I balked. “Italy? You’re kidding, right?” Jesus, the last time I remembered, we were in New York, and now he was saying we were in Italy?

He nodded. “Well, we’re somewhere off the coast of Rome, to be exact.” He spread his arms out wide. “A very good friend of mine was kind enough to let us borrow his yacht.”

“A yacht?” I breathed. “Rome?”

He arched a brow. “Would you like a moment to process that?” Sarcasm dripped from his words, and I wanted to smack that amused grin off his face.

“Care to tell me why we’re in Italy, and on a yacht?”

“So,” he feigned a look of thought, clearly enjoying the theatrics, “imagine you’re trying to get away from some really bad men, and the—”

“Oh, you mean men like you?”

“Hush, woman. Has your father never taught you not to interrupt a man when he’s speaking?” He held up his hand. “Oh, that’s right. You never had a father.”

It stung more than I’d care to admit, the way he used the truth to take a stab at me, and also to remind me just how much he fucking knew about me and my life.

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