Page 17 of The Villain's Captive (The Villain's Duet 1)

Her lips parted, and eyes widened. “Exactly how long have you been stalking me?”

“Observing.”

“Stalking. Normal people who aren’t psychopaths call it stalking.”

I laced my fingers together, contemplating for a moment whether I wanted to go down this path and partake in the conversation she was pursuing. Would it be wise to humor her need for answers, her need to make sense of what was happening? Her entire life was about secrets, about hiding the truth. What would the risks be if I decided to lay it all out on the table right now, catapult her life into deadly chaos?

“How long?” She pressed for an answer, but this time there was a slight tremor in her voice.

“A while,” I stated firmly, not entirely giving her the answer she wanted.

“You stalked me for…a while?”

“Eat, Charlotte.”

She tightened her arms around herself, a blatant show of defiance. But I had seen enough fear in my life to recognize it hiding behind pointed glares and brave faces.

I studied her as she looked down at her bare feet, placing one foot on top of the other. There was a certain allure in her vulnerability, a level of seduction in the way she unknowingly stirred to life this involuntary curiosity about her, to get to know her.

To own her.

I rubbed my fingers across my beard, studying her slender form, the gentle curve of her hips, the oversized T-shirt she wore hiding the swells of her breasts—and for a single fucking moment I imagined what her body would look like naked. Aroused. Entirely at my mercy.

My cock hardened, my skin set alight with anticipation. Anticipation of what? Fucking the woman you kidnapped?

I shifted in my seat. “Eat.”

“No.” Her fiery gaze met mine.

“Then at least take a fucking shower.” There was no hiding the level of my annoyance, the frustration I felt over the hard-on I had developed for the cellist. After years of watching her, observing her, studying her, it was natural to assume I’d form some sort of familiarity toward her. God knew there was that unexplainable addiction toward her musical talent and that old fucking cello of hers, which was now broken, left to be forgotten.

“I don’t have clean clothes.” Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, the movement drawing my attention to the marks my cruel hands had left around her neck. It stirred a bitter taste on my tongue. I wasn’t in the business of hurting women—except one, a long fucking time ago. But I had no choice, ignoring the one fucking moral I did have in life, and I hurt her. It could so easily have gone wrong. Just a few seconds longer, pressing down on her windpipe slightly harder, and she’d be dead.

That thought didn’t sit well with me.

I stood and plucked the phone from my pocket, speed dialing Josh’s number as I advanced toward her, her eyes regarding me like one would watch a starved animal. “I need you to phone La Boutique, ask for Marianne, and let her put together a few items of woman’s clothing. Jeans, shirts, blouses.” I stilled mere inches from her. “Five-foot-four. Just over a hundred pounds.” I licked my lips as I looked at hers, her top lip adorned with a perfect goddamn cupid’s bow. “Dresses too.” My hand touched her waist, the sound of a gentle gasp leaving her lips making my dick swell. “And underwear. Lingerie.”

Her cheeks instantly flushed, and my motherfucking cock liked that look on her.

The blue in her eyes glistened, and the predator in me allowed my fingertips to continue up her waist, dragging the shirt and exposing her belly, her ivory skin lacking the fake tan most women loved to flaunt. Beautiful, flawless and delicate—like white rose petals illuminated with innocence.

I watched her, kept her gaze captive, anticipating any kind of reaction from her. But she remained unmoved. Silent. I wasn’t even sure she was breathing.

“Preferably white,” I said into the receiver while I touched her side, the need to push boundaries pulsing in my veins. My finger drew leisurely circles across her naked flesh, the shirt bundled up and creased before my hand slid underneath.

Her eyes snapped shut, and my hand closed around her breast, feeling its weight in my palm. “B-cup,” I murmured, and those lush, rosy-pink lips of hers parted.

I squeezed, loving how her tit fit so fucking perfectly in my hand, my cock rock goddamn hard and twitching in response. How easy it would be for me to continue, to give my dick what it wanted. To cross the fucking line.

A single tear slipped down her cheek, her eyes still closed, lapping over a now trembling bottom lip.

“And, Josh, pay cash. Do not mention my name.”

I hung up, and she finally opened her eyes—slowly, cautiously, as if she feared what she would see.

“Elijah,” she whispered, and I could swear to God the sound of my name on her lips was the start of my fucking undoing. “I’m scared.” Her shoulders shuddered. “You scare me. Please…don’t do this.” Tears made the blue in her eyes shimmer. Like diamonds. Crystals of unhappiness. Not even her fear, her sorrow, her pain could extinguish the desire that now burned like the motherfucking sun in my groin. A tear dripped from her chin, and I lifted my hand in time to catch it, my skin soaking up the wetness. There was something sensual about it—erotic, even—how I could catch her sorrow and let it soak through my skin.

I cupped her cheek, lowering my lips closer to hers. “Would you believe me if I said I’m not the one you should fear?”

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