Page 32 of The Tallest Tower (Underbelly Enchanted)

Maybe she planned to jump from the balcony once she got through the doors, and to do that, she knew she’d need a broader range of motion than her garment allowed in order to get up on the railing.

“I have not been able to make choices today.” She stiffens her jaw and looksdownat me, despite the fact she’s seated and I’m not. “My free will was taken from me the moment you abducted me and brought me here against my wishes.”

“You’re still speaking to me like we’re in a boardroom.” I slip my hand into my pocket and take out a set of keys, then turning back to the heavy doors, I unfasten the lock and open my room up to reveal the gardens Micah has maintained since his youth.

He won’t admit it, of course. He doesn’t make a song and dance about his hobbies. But the dude has a green thumb, and at least eighty percent of what’s out there was stolen from someone else’s yard, cut, and then placed within our greenhouse until they were ready for transplant outside.

Winter in New York can be rough on a garden, but Micah seems to find pleasure in tending it, the way I find pleasure in women. While I prefer to fuck, he elects to sweat in a hot box, fingering the soil of something green.

One of us chooses destruction. The other, growth and life.

We’re not the same. And yet, he accepts me anyway.

“You can come out here if you want.” I step out onto the balcony and inhale the sweet air of evening on the East Coast. The sun is heading toward the horizon, the half-crescent of the moon already popping up overhead.

We’re not in the city, where skyscrapers would steal our view. We’re an easy drive from Manhattan and the boroughs we conduct businessout of. But we’re far enough away from their lights that we can see the stars—and for that, at least, I thank my father, and his father before him.

“I won’t stop you from getting fresh air.”

“Will you stop me from jumping?”

I start when her voice is impossibly close, my hands, fisting by my sides. Though my face gives nothing away.

She wanders to the railing that overlooks just a small portion of my property, placing her bound hands on top. “If I jump,” she repeats almost-too-quietly. “Will you stop me?”

“Yes.” I step forward, concerned that she’s just crazy enough to test my words, and stopping a single foot from her back, I reach out and loop my finger in the belt hole of her skirt. “It’s a long fall, princess. Far enough to hurt you, but not so far as to ensure a fast death.”

“Stop calling me princess. And darling. And whatever else you’ve said.” She tries to inch away, to pull her skirt from my grip, but all she manages is to bring me closer. “My name is Christabelle Cannon.” Exhaling a tired sigh, she looks over her shoulder and pins me with a dark stare. “You can call meMs.Cannon.”

I bring my free hand up and scratch my chin, noting that the stubble I typically wear is quickly changing to something more…mature.

“What do you want from me?” she demands into my silence. Turning from the beautiful botanical view, she tips her head back and looks up into my eyes. “What, Felix? You haven’t killed me yet, but you won’t release me. You’ve fed me. Watered me. Made my excuses to work so no one will come looking. You had me unconscious all night and unable to fight back, but you didn’t rape me.”

I wrinkle my nose and count the freckles above her cheekbones. The smattering I’ve never noticed, in all my years of seeing her in the media. “Just like I’m not into somnophilia, I’m equally abhorred by non-consent.”

“It’s called rape,” she spits back. “‘Non-consensual’ is a fancy descriptor for an unforgivable act.”

“A sentiment I was expressing before you snapped at me.” I take a step closer so our toes almost touch, and her breath comes to a dangerous standstill. “I’m not saying I’m not rough, Darling. And fuckknows, I like the chase. If you tell me to hunt you down and take what I want, I’ll still give you a head start and make it worth both our while. But I won’t steal from the unwilling—not when there are so many others happy to provide.”

“You’re a pig.” Her lips curl into a feral sneer, like I’m somehow the bad guy fornotraping people. “You think women yearn for you?”

“Women do yearn for me.” I reach across and stroke the bruising on her throat I know I put there.

She pissed me off. Tripped my trigger.

And I fell for it.

“Women want me, Darling. They cry for me, knowing coming to this house is dangerous. They want me because they detest the humdrum life they currently live, and a visit to my bed is an exciting brush with death.”

“Do you make a habit of fucking them and killing them?” She turns her face to knock my hand free of her flesh. “Like your father?”

“I wouldn’t say ahabit, but once or twice,” I qualify, prompting her temper to grow hotter in her eyes. “But those women were looking to hurt people I love. It was for the greater good!”

I frown when, instead of speaking, she slips out from between me and the balcony railing and starts inside. I expected her to havesomeresponse, even if to argue with me or say mean things.

She makes a beeline for the bedside table, picking up a glass of water I didn’t even notice before this moment. If she’s hydrating, then she’s not suicidal. She wants out of here. But she doesn’t want it to be in a black bag.

“I protect my family,” I push on as she tips her drink back and chugs half the glass in one go. “Which is precisely why you’re here right now.”

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