Page 8 of The Villain's Captive (The Villain's Duet 1)

It didn’t take me more than ten minutes to search through her apartment until I stilled in front of the bed, leaning my head to the side as I crouched and reached underneath to find the hidden cello. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t relieved. A cellist without a cello was like Romeo without his Juliet. Void and lost.

A truck passed the building, the loud rumble of its engine causing the windows to shudder. The traffic was utter madness, every second car honking down the street. No wonder she escaped to the Alto to get some silence so she could give her heart what it wanted. Music.

I took a breath and gently eased open the case, only to stare at a cracked and broken cello. There were no words to describe the sinking feeling in my gut when I saw the pieces. No wonder she never went back to the Alto after that night. She had no instrument to play. No reason to sit on the stage in front of an empty theatre.

And I had no reason to care. I shouldn’t have cared. But I did.

“Fucking Christ!” I slammed the case shut. If only she had taken my gift. She should have taken the cello I left for her that night. Something I shouldn’t have done because it compromised the job by making unnecessary contact.

“Fuck!” I roughed my hands through my hair, the voices growing louder, the memories becoming stronger.

“You’re a fucking disease, little boy.”

“You’re nothing but a stray no one wants.”

I closed my eyes, but instead of darkness, I saw red. Crimson. Liquid souls flooding everything in its path.

“You should have died, too.”

“Do not make me choose, because I’ll choose him. I’ll choose him over you.”

“Jesus!” I balled my fist and slammed it against the drywall, breaking clear through it. The filigree wallpaper tore, and I stared at the hole my fit of rage had caused.

She should be playing. Charlotte should be playing every minute of every hour of every motherfucking day.

“Fuck!” I cursed and pulled my fingers through my hair. This was supposed to be easy. But this thing with her was getting complicated—too fucking complicated, and I had no one to blame but myself. I got too close. Made it personal.

My phone vibrated, a text message finally confirming that which I knew would eventually come. Now, my little charade had to come to an end, this fucking fantasy I lived in now killed and drowned with one goddamn text.

I had three years to prepare myself for this moment, three years of tracking her, studying her, making sure I knew everyone she had contact with. Employers, colleagues, friends—even her fucking pharmacist. Every minute spent on this job, every move I made had led up to this exact moment.

The sound of keys resonated from the front door, and I darted toward it, pushing my back against the wall. Waiting. Anticipating. Breathing.

Charlotte walked inside and shut the door behind her with a kick of her boot, shrugging drops of rain off her jacket. With her back still toward me, she placed a brown paper bag on the tiny dining table, and my pulse raced, yet I controlled my breathing—controlled my thoughts. Control was the most crucial aspect of this job. Without it, stupid mistakes were made, mistakes that got you caught.

She turned and looked right at me—a single second in time that froze for what seemed like an eternity as I locked my gaze with hers.

I had no choice.

I had no motherfucking choice.

I had to do it.

I had to take her.

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