Page 42 of The Villain's Captive (The Villain's Duet 1)

He reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled a needle out. “Now, you need to calm down, son.”

“Don’t call me son,” I seethed. I wanted to spit in his face like a poisonous viper. “Stay away from me.” I inched back, regarding the threat in front of me, glancing at the needle in his hand. “What is that?”

“It’s just your medicine, Elijah,” my mom chimed in, her face more pale than usual. “It will help you relax.”

“No.” I pursed my lips, my back hitting the windowsill. “Don’t come near me.”

It took Roland no more than three steps to close the distance between us, but I dodged him, ducked underneath his arm, and ran toward the door. But someone grabbed my elbow and pulled me back.

My mom.

My own mother.

“Please, Elijah,” she urged as she grabbed my other arm. “We just want to help you.”

Tears slipped down my face, yet all I felt was hate as I looked at her. For the first time in my life, since this nightmare with her started, I hated her. I wanted her dead. I wanted to watch her die and pray to God that he wouldn’t have mercy on her soul.

I sucked air through my teeth and leaned closer. “You know her. You know Ellie. Your daughter.”

“No, son.” Her eyes softened with something that mirrored compassion. But it couldn’t be. My mom was incapable of feeling anything but a rush and a high. “I don’t know who Ellie is.”

“That’s a lie,” I bit out, and then felt the prick of the needle into my arm. “I hate you,” I whispered. “I hope you rot in hell.”

Charlotte placedher fork down and took a sip of her white wine, her plate of seabass fillet and zucchini hardly touched.

I lifted a brow. “Something wrong with your food?”

“No. It’s perfect. I’m just…feeling a bit out of sorts.” She placed her glass down. “You made this?”

I nodded.

“You’re a good cook.”

“I’m good at a lot of things.”

She looked at me from under her long, thick lashes, pulling her lips in a straight line, knowing exactly what I was insinuating.

“So, this yacht,” her blue-gray eyes glanced around, “it’s quite something.”

“Saint has a taste for the ridiculously expensive.” I took a bite of the seabass, its taste mild, delicate, buttery—perfection.

“How exactly do you know this Saint person?”

“A mutual friend.”

“How about an answer that’s slightly less vague?”

I shrugged, taking another bite of my food, making no attempt to further the conversation. It didn’t sit well with me to discuss matters that included work, acquaintances, or anything about my life. A man like me built his entire professional foundation on discretion and confidentiality. We didn’t fucking talk.

“You said you were going to tell me everything.”

“I was hoping we could get through dinner first before we discussed other matters.”

She leaned back in her seat, the night sky casting beautiful shadows across her face. “I’d rather we get all the secrets out in the air first.”

“Will you eat once I’ve told you everything?”

“That depends on what you’re going tell me.”

---