Page 16 of Corrupted Seduction

“Can you do anything with this?” he asked, nodding toward the cupboards. He opened them up, revealing a multitude of canned foods and dry goods.

I pretended to survey the contents of the cupboards for a moment, then shrugged. “I could hit you over the head with one of those cans. That’s something, right?”

He laughed. The tiniest, faint lines appeared at the corners of his amber eyes when he did, and it somehow made him even more attractive.

“You’re feisty,” he said—which was not an attractive thing to say at all.

“That’s an admirable trait in a chihuahua,” I spat back. “I assure you, I’m no ankle-biter.”

He cocked an eyebrow. There were no lines at the corners of his eyes now, but their amber depths filled with heat. “Then where do you bite,signorina?”

“Come closer and I’ll show you.”

On the surface, I’m sure it sounded like some twisted flirtation, but I meant every word. I would have been more than happy to sink my teeth into the tosser. Preferably his neck, where I could tear right through his jugular in the process. Or his carotid. Honestly, I wasn’t picky.

He smiled lazily. “Tempting,” he said. I imagined his voice like smooth whiskey, the amber liquid—like the color of his eyes—gliding over ice. “Though, if I did come closer, you wouldn’t be the one sinking your teeth into flesh.” His eyes were intent—no longerwarm,they felt scorching.

I looked away, denying that he was having any effect on me and focusing on the odd conversation at hand.

“You’ve brought me here to cook for you?” I asked in a haughty tone that matched my stance.

“No.” He didn’t elaborate.

I was about to tell him to make his own bloody food, but my stomach chose that precise moment to clench uncomfortably around the nothing inside it. The last I’d eaten had been half a sandwich in the hospital cafeteria, hours before my shift had ended. How long ago had that been? I wondered. I wasn’t really sure how much time had passed, and that was disorienting me just as much as my unknown surroundings.

I huffed, dropped my arms, and looked through the cupboards in earnest this time, grabbing cans of vegetables here, a package of cavatappi noodles there. A handful of spice jars and a bottle of olive oil.

Making food wouldn’t only serve to satisfy my hunger; it would allow me to familiarize myself with the kitchen. The knives. Scissors. The glassware that could be broken and used as a weapon.

“Pots?” I asked.

He eyed me for a moment, like perhaps he was deciding if I was planning to hit him over the head with them.

Apparently, he determined the threat was minimal because he leaned down in front of the cupboard next to the deluxe Bertazzoni gas range and withdrew two pots and a frying pan. Stainless steel. Too bad; cast iron could have done some worthwhile damage.

He set them on the counter, and I got to work—if it could be called work—boiling water for the noodles and filling the frying pan with olive oil and the canned carrots and green beans, mushrooms and peas.

As I worked, I opened drawers and cupboards under the guise of searching for can openers, spatulas, and dishware.

Finally, I added a few spices from the cupboard that contained a heavy looking pepper grinder, andvoilà—the kind of meal that had kept me fed through my teenage years. No one had exactly been jumping through hoops to feed me, so I’d figured it out myself.

By the time I’d transferred the food to plates, my captor was looking at the concoction skeptically, like it couldn’t possibly be edible, but he made no comment.

It felt like some strange domestic scene right out of the Twilight Zone when he took the plates and transferred them to the oak dining table at the end of the galley. He pulled out a chair and stood behind it, presumably waiting for me to take a seat.

I glared, because this was not some romantic dinner between lovers. This was survival.

“Suit yourself,” he said after a moment, then took the seat next to it, leaving the chair pulled out for me.

I left the chair where it was, grabbed my plate, and took it to the other side of the table. It didn’t escape my notice that if my plan had been to escape by seduction, I wasn’t off to a very good start.

All right, new plan,I thought to myself as I dug into the pasta dish. I’d sneak a knife into my pocket from the drawer next to the sink under the pretense of putting away the dirty dishes. Then, I’d wait for him to fall asleep—because even psychotic killers needed to sleep—and then I’d slash his throat.

It would be quick. Effective. And final.

Murder?

My stomach turned. But it wasn’t murder; it was self-preservation, no different than what this man would have done had the roles been reversed.

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