Page 9 of The Villain's Captive (The Villain's Duet 1)

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My eyes shot open,and I reached for my throat, remembering how fear sucked the air out of my lungs as he wrapped his hands around my neck. I tried to fight. Clawed at his hands, his arms, his face—anywhere so that he would let go so I could breathe. But he tightened his grip, fingers biting into my flesh, my lungs burning as he slowly suffocated me. I remembered wondering if this was how I would die—gasping for breath while staring the devil in the eye, trying to speak and beg for him to stop. But everything went dark, reality sucked away from my mind, my thoughts silent…until now.

I sat up and grabbed the unfamiliar sheets with my fists, scanning the room. Gray walls, white ceiling with dimmed lights, dark laminated floors, and large floor-to-ceiling windows that showcased the night lights of a city. New York City? God, I hoped I was still in New York.

I jumped off the bed and looked around, the furniture all sleek and modern, clearly decorated according to a minimalist's taste. I frantically searched through every drawer and cupboard, trying to find something I could use to protect myself. But everything was empty, as if no one had lived there.

The room sure didn’t paint a picture of a dungeon, and neither did the white silks sheets I woke up on. But it was when I tried to turn the doorknob only to find it locked that I realized this was just a well-decorated prison cell.

The idea of breaking a window and jumping did cross my mind, until I walked over to the clear glass and saw how high up I was, my hopes of escaping that way diminished. At least the closer view confirmed I was still in New York since I recognized the iconic skyline.

The last thing I remembered was his face. His expression, hard and cold. Like stone. The moment our eyes met, his brown irises darkened with pure resolve. It took me a split second and one breath to realize what he came for.

Me.

Keys rattled by the door, and I leaped to the other side of the room, shoving myself in the corner as my heart simultaneously stopped and got lodged in my throat, causing me to hold my breath. Every horrible thought imaginable had crossed my mind as I stood huddled in the corner, watching the door as if death could come walking through it at any moment.

I pressed my back harder against the wall, trying to make myself smaller as the door slowly opened. Nausea slammed into the pit of my stomach as adrenaline crashed against my spine. I had never experienced fear of this magnitude before. The kind of fear that would make you gladly choose death if it meant escaping the crippling terror.

The moment he walked in, I stopped fucking breathing. The man looked like a powerhouse in a suit. Large frame, broad shoulders. Dark eyes.

Pure. Malice.

His eyes met mine as he closed the door, lines of disapproval forming on his forehead. “What the hell are you doing?”

The back of my neck tingled with the familiar tenor in his guttural voice. Low. Rough.

“Get up, Charlotte. You’re not a fucking animal.”

My name. How did he…

“Charlotte Leigh Moore,” he said as if he could read my mind. His expression remained stone as he walked closer, his white shirt a stark contrast against his olive skin. My gaze dropped to the case he carried. A cello case.

“You’ll find there’s not much I don’t know about you.” He placed the case down on a black couch that stood against the adjacent wall.

His dark gaze pinned me in the corner, and I was too afraid to move. The expression on his face was hard, dark, void of any emotion. There was nothing there, his eyes empty, hollow, cold. The room chilled instantly, and every hair on my arms and neck raised.

“Who are you?” My voice carried a panicked pitch, and I hardly managed a breath.

“That depends.”

“On what?”

He placed his hands in the pockets of his black pants, squaring his shoulders, standing regal and proud. “On who’s asking.”

“I’m asking.”

He lifted a brow, his eyes orbs of cognac and venom. “For now, all you need to know is that I’m God…for you, at least.”

“What do you want with me?”

A smirk curled at the corners of his mouth framed with a dark manicured beard as he glanced from me to the cello. “I want you to play.”

“What?” My voice shook. I sounded weak, and I hated it.

“Play the cello.”

Slowly, cautiously, I pushed myself up and straightened, my palms flat against the wall behind me. “I don’t know what it is you think you want from me, but if you claim to know so much about me, you’ll know I have nothing to offer you.”

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