Page 35 of The Villain's Captive (The Villain's Duet 1)

He dragged his fingers through his hair, and the veins in his hand bulged. His silence was excruciating, and I had to fight the urge to wrap my hands around his neck and force the truth out of him.

“Tell me what the hell is going on, or I swear to God I will jump off this motherfucking yacht the second you’re not looking.” I was desperate and at the point where I’d threaten the goddamn Pope if I had to.

He sucked air through his teeth, the black fabric of his dress shirt adding more mystery to a man who already bathed in it.

Okay,” he conceded, “I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

Relief eased over my shoulders.

“Over dinner.”

“Dinner?”

“You have to eat, Charlotte.” He brushed past me toward the door. “I’ll go prepare dinner, and then we can talk.”

I arched a brow. “You cook?”

“There’s so much more to me than just killing people.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Maybe you’ll be able to see that someday.”

“And maybe you’ll start to realize that there’s more to me than just a cello.”

He scoffed. “Do not fool yourself. That instrument is the largest part of who you are. The cello is in your blood.”

The sound of his heavy footsteps resounded as he walked out, and all I could do was stare at the open door after he left. He didn’t lock me in this time. No slam of the door or click of a lock. What did this mean? Could I trust it?

God, I’d be a fool if I did.

The weight of everything that had happened weakened me and forced me down as I fell on the bed, my back hitting the mattress.

I wasn’t sure what fucked with my head more—the fact that he brought me two breaths away from an orgasm, or the fact that I liked it. That I didn’t want him to stop. Every inch of my skin was sensitive, my sense of smell and touch heightened all because of him—my kidnapper. A confessed contract killer. What the hell did that make me? A masochist. An idiot. A profoundly stupid human being.

I counted the ceiling lights, twirling a curl around my finger. Eight lights cast the room under a blanket of cool white. To think that I had never traveled outside of the US, and here I was in Rome, yet I hadn’t seen a sliver of it. Kidnapped, drugged, transported. All these years, I suspected the universe had some personal vendetta against me.

A talent for music threatened by an immune disorder.

The most beautiful man I had ever seen stained with the blood of his victims.

A trip to the world’s most romantic city ruined by abduction.

All of this was just a giant vortex of one ultimate mindfuck, and my mind was teetering at the edge of breaking. The worst part? I was starting to wonder if he had to offer me my freedom, would I have left? Would I have left knowing this man knew my father, my grandfather—had the answers to so many questions—all for the sake of freedom?

At least, my version of freedom.

Would I have run if I had the chance? If I were totally honest with myself, I’d admit the answer would most likely have been no.

A defeated sigh brushed past my lips, and I forced myself to get up and get dressed.

There were two double-door closets filled with designer labeled clothing. Ralph Lauren, Donna Karan, Vera Wang. Ranging from dresses to skirts to blouses, rompers and stylish jumpsuits. The shoes and handbags alone made the closet look like a Louis Vuitton boutique. Who the hell was this person Elijah referred to as his friend?

An all-black, long-sleeve jumpsuit was the nearest thing I could find that remotely looked like something I would wear. The low-cut neckline revealed far more skin than I had hoped, so I wore my hair loose, hoping the curls would drape over my shoulders and down my chest to hide most of it.

“Miss Moore?”

My heart slammed against my chest as I turned, frightened by the unfamiliar voice.

A man dressed in a black suit, white shirt, and black tie stood by the door like a goddamn powerhouse of pure muscle and brut. “Mr. Mariano said to escort you to the deck when you’re ready.”

“Who are you?”

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