Page 23 of The Villain's Captive (The Villain's Duet 1)

My phone vibrated, and I swiped across the screen, checking all four payment confirmations into the selected accounts I had sent to Julio Bernardi. Fucker. Part of me hoped he’d slip up with the payment. It would have given me a reason to stop the entire goddamn operation. Call everything off and let Charlotte go. Question was, if the contract had to end today and there was no reason to keep her captive any longer, would I have let her go? Or would the sick fucker in me keep her, hoping she’d play that cello for me every goddamn day so I could lose myself in her and her music?

Blurred lines.

I stood and took the bottle of whiskey, strolling down the hall. There was too much adrenaline coursing through my system, too many racing thoughts for me even to attempt getting some sleep.

When I walked past the locked door that kept the cellist in, the key in my pocket suddenly felt heavier. I plucked it out and stared at it in my palm, easing my thumb along the curved ridges before I convinced myself it would be considered polite to check on my guest—make sure she was all settled in.

Of course, I didn’t knock before I unlocked the door and stepped into the bedroom. This was my fucking apartment.

The dimmed lights were still on, and the blinds still open. But Charlotte had curled up on the bed, clutching a pillow, and seemingly fast asleep.

Purposely, I stepped lightly as I crossed the wooden floors toward the side of the bed. I took a large gulp of whiskey from the bottle, cringing as the alcohol burned down my throat.

How many nights had I watched her like this? Vulnerable, innocent, peaceful. How many times had I watched her cry herself to sleep? Alone. Heartbroken. Scared. One could say I had seen all the different sides to this woman. How her eyes changed color to a deeper, more vibrant shade of blue whenever she was happy. And how she would chew the inside of her mouth when she tried her hardest to hold back tears.

No matter how many times she had smiled, she couldn’t hide her loneliness from me. She carried it on her shoulders since the day she said goodbye to her mother for the last time.

I shot back another mouthful of whiskey when Charlotte stirred. “Pretending to be asleep with a stalker lurking in the room is really fucking hard.”

I grinned. “Observer.”

She sat up and leaned back against the headboard while holding the pillow in front of her chest. “Did you really think I’d be able to sleep?”

“Eventually, the adrenaline will wear off and your whole system will crash into exhaustion.” From the corner of my eyes, I spotted the unopened pizza box. “You didn’t eat.”

“I’m not hungry, Elijah. I just want to go home.”

“Home?” I lifted a brow. “You call that shithole apartment home?”

She toyed with the seam of the pillow. “That shithole is the closest thing I have to a home. Besides, right now I’d rather be anywhere else than here with you.”

I swirled the amber liquid around in the bottle as I regarded her, her skin glowing under the pale light, her lips an enticing blush pink. The way her blouse fell along her chest exposed the swell of her breast, teasing the fuck out of me and my now hard cock. “Earlier, you said you were scared of me. Right now, you don’t seem scared at all.”

She glanced my way. “It’s because I realized that being afraid of you won’t stop you from doing whatever it is you plan on doing to me. Psychopaths like you feed on fear. I’d be stupid to cower.”

“Or smart.”

“Maybe. But if you kill me, I think I’d prefer to die knowing I fought.”

“Remember that when you’re staring down the barrel of a gun, or feel the cold steel of a knife against your throat. Strength isn’t defined by how you fight. Strength is being able to do what needs to be done in order to survive.”

Those pretty doe eyes of hers looked up at me. “And what, exactly, do I need to do to survive you?”

And there it was again, the buzz of desire that vibrated through every bone in my fucking body, urging me to touch. Taste. Devour. The longer I stood there looking down at her, the more I imagined tearing through that silk blouse so I could wrap my lips around one of her pebbled nipples and suck it raw.

I reached out, brushing the back of my hand down the side of her face—her skin warm and smooth under my touch. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t shudder. She didn’t even fucking move, and I weaved my fingers through her hair. A soft, tangled disarray of curls. “Fear, my sweet cellist, is the mind’s best motivator when it comes to surviving.”

I tightened my fist abruptly, gripping her hair tight and pulling her head back, exposing the beautiful, delicate arch of her throat, bobbing as she swallowed. My gaze held her captive, her pretty pink lips parted as I brought mine closer, hovering a mere inch away.

“It is our fear that fuels us,” I eased my fingers along her jaw, “our fear of failure, of pain,” I gripped her chin between my thumb and forefinger, “death. Those are the things that make it so fucking important for us to survive. Even if it means exploiting the fear of others by making their worst nightmares come true.” I bit my bottom lip as I studied her, those blue orbs of crystal staring back at me with a burning determination to not. Show. Fear. And by God, I loved it.

“So, let me tell you what not to do in order to survive me.” I tugged her hair in my fist, and she moaned, the sound burning its way to the tip of my cock. “Do not fight me if you want to survive me. All it does is make my dick hard and my control non-existent, and I doubt you’re strong enough to handle that.”

I let go of her hair, and I was sure she’d scramble to the other side of the bed like a scared little kitten with her tail between her legs. But instead, she sat up, not taking her eyes off mine for a second, her cheeks flushed, and upper lip curled with a snarl. Her face was the perfect picture of resistance and contempt. “You don’t know what I can or cannot handle, Elijah. Just because you stood in the darkness and preyed on my life does not mean you fucking know me.”

I wiped at my chin with the back of my hand, unable to stop myself from being amused by her. It was in her bones, in her blood—that primal need to fight.

“You know,” I grabbed the bottle of whiskey, “you remind me of someone.”

“Yeah, who?”

I smirked. “You’ll find out soon, little cellist. Soon.”

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