Page 36 of The Villain's Captive (The Villain's Duet 1)

“My name is James, Mr. Russo’s head of security.”

“Mr. Russo?”

He nodded. “The man who owns The Empress.”

I scowled.

“This yacht,” he clarified. “May I suggest a jacket or scarf? Autumn nights at sea could get quite chilly.”

At sea. Italy. It still felt surreal.

I shook my head lightly. “Okay…um, give me a minute.”

“Of course. I’ll be right outside the door.”

I smiled, trying my best not to show how damn awkward I felt. This wasn’t my world, adorned with wealth, yachts, designer clothing, and heads of security prowling around in Armani suits.

Please, God, let there be alcohol at dinner.

I searched through what seemed like two hundred pairs of shoes and decided on a pair of black and silver closed-toe heel pumps about half a size too big for my feet, but it just had to do.

From the corner of my eye, I spotted the black scarf Elijah had blindfolded me with. The memory stirred the ache between my legs, my body still hellbent on proving desire was stronger than common sense.

I grabbed the scarf and wrapped it around my shoulders, hoping it was enough to ward off the autumn chill. Just as I was about to walk out, I glanced in the direction of the bed, sheets all ruffled and unmade. The perfectionist in me cringed as I bit my thumbnail, trying to suppress the need to smooth out the creases.

“Goddammit,” I muttered to myself, succumbing to my pedantic tendencies, lifting the sheet and draping it over the bed, easing my palm across the silk until every crease was gone.

Plumping up the pillow, I glanced down at the bedside table and saw the bottle of perfume placed next to the crystal lamp.

Could it be…my perfume?

From the moment I woke, I was caught up in this whirlwind of madness, not noticing it before now.

I picked it up, my fingertips gently brushing against the blush pink glass bottle. A pang of grief snuck up on me as I turned it to look at the bottom, the tiny red heart doodled on the label sticker. It wasn’t a new bottle, or a coincidence. This was my perfume, the bottle I bought for myself a few weeks ago.

“I’ve always wanted to know about that.”

I didn’t turn to face him.

“You worked two jobs, lived in a crummy apartment, and scraped by each day. Yet you managed to afford such an expensive brand of perfume.”

My skin flushed as I listened to his footsteps approach and still right behind me.

“Why?”

I traced a fingertip along the little heart. “I would think that since you know me so well, you’d know why.”

“Some things can’t be learned by observance alone.” He was so close, I could feel him breathe over my shoulder as his authority wrapped around me like I was already his. As if he had claimed me a long time ago.

“It was a gift from my mother on my sixteenth birthday,” I started, my heart already hurting. “She said that perfume is the keeper of memories. That a scent can breathe life and color into a faded memory, and make it seem like yesterday.” Tears prickled my eyes, and I took a deep breath before placing the bottle down on the table. “I’ve been buying myself this exact brand of perfume ever since, drawing that little heart on each one.” I turned to face him, surprisingly unintimidated by how close he was. “How did you know to take this? To bring it here?”

“I knew it meant something to you, I just didn’t know why.” He reached up and brushed the back of his hand down my cheek. “You loved your mother.”

“She was all I had.” The truth in those words made my insides bleed. Not a day went by that I didn’t think of her, miss her, long to hear her voice one last time.

I glanced down, making a steeple with my fingers. “She wasn’t just my mom, Elijah. She was my best friend too.” I couldn’t fight the grief any longer. My heart, my soul, my body—all of me was just too fractured to pretend I could talk about her without breaking down.

A tear escaped, and I was back there in that dark hole. A place where I was alone, where I had nothing or no one to help ease the grief and the pain of losing not just my mother but a part of myself as well. I was completely and utterly alone. My tears were my own. My loneliness and heartache were my own.

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