I grabbed the dish I’d just prepared and another bottle of water, carrying both to the bedroom. Lolita had retreated to the corner of the room, as far as the chain would allow unless she hid in the bathroom. I could read her well enough to see she was afraid. It wasn’t a pleasant sight. I didn’t want her to fear anyone other than myself, and even then, I only wanted to savor her terror when the situation called for it.

  “Sit back down,” I ordered softly.

  “What happened to that woman?”

  I withheld a sigh, mindful that this was as new to her as it was to me. I wasn’t accustomed to having to repeat myself or wait to be obeyed. “Nothing that should have you cowering in a corner.”

  “I’m not cowering,” she retorted with a hint of indignation.

  “Sit back down then,” I coaxed.

  I waited for her to move, pleased when she finally listened. I walked to the edge of bed and set down the bottle of water before I offered her the dish. “You need to eat.”

  She gingerly accepted it and studied the fruits and chocolate almonds as if searching for a hint of visible poison.

  “It’s safe. I prepared it myself.”

  Whatever she was going to say, she thought better of it and picked up an orange slice. Regardless of what was going on inside her head, she couldn’t deny her body needed food and rest. I watched her eat, knowing my stare was making her uncomfortable. I was too enraptured to care. Didn’t matter I’d spent hours on end watching her the past few years.

  I never tired of it.

  She was so beautiful. And most importantly, she was mine.

  After taking a few more bites, she sat the plate down and rolled her lips together before fixing me with a curious, yet guarded stare. “Do you have cameras in here?”

  “They’re in the whole house.”

  “That’s how you knew she spit in the food.”

  I gave nothing away as that registered in my brain. Kennedy was fortunate not to be here anymore. To think she could ever get away with such a disgusting act was naive at best. I would’ve gutted her like the lowly swine she was, right where she stood. Of course, I knew she’d tampered with the food. I didn’t need to play any footage back to confirm that, but to spit in it? The way she behaved was inexcusable.

  Lolita took a small breath and stared at me.

  I could tell she wanted to say something but was either unsure or afraid. I kept silent and waited.

  “What’s going to happen to her?”

  “Nothing you need to be concerned about.”

  “Then… then what’s going to happen to me?”

  This was the question I’d been expecting her to ask. I knew my answer mattered. Whatever I said would weigh on her mind and subconsciously influence how she behaved. With less than twenty-four hours until the Rite, I wanted to keep her as calm as possible. That left me unable to respond with full disclosure.

  “As much as I’d like to answer you, this is a conversation for tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? Then you’re going to keep me chained up like this?”

  “Lolita…” I swept my gaze over her face. I couldn’t get over how beautiful she was. I’d grown up being told I was blessed and highly favored by Carnalis Dominus. I’d never believed it more than in this moment. It was thanks to him I had her.

  “That chain around your ankle is the only thing stopping me from doing what I’ve wanted to do since the moment I saw you in my hotel room.”

  She blinked and subtly shrank away. It made me want to reach out and pull her closer. “Finish your meal and get some sleep.”

  I took one last look at her and then left the room before I did something I couldn’t undo. I never had an issue controlling myself or with being patient. Lolita had been home less than a day and I could already tell I would struggle to uphold those values when it came to her. She wanted the chain removed, but it was the only thing keeping her safe from me.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I couldn’t believe I’d fallen asleep. Not only that, but I’d slept better than I had in weeks. I wanted to blame Mr. Hawthorne and accuse him of drugging me again, but the exhaustion that settled into my bones was a result of everything catching up to me.

  One of the first things I noticed upon waking was that he or someone else had been in here while I slept. The second thing I realized was that the house was no longer quiet. I could hear pots and pans clanking, followed by an occasional feminine voice. The aroma of bacon wafted through the air and caused my stomach to growl.

  I couldn’t remember the last time I had been this hungry. It felt like days had passed since Mr. Hawthorne brought me a plate of fruit. There was no one to blame for that but myself. It was stupid of me to have refused food when I hadn’t eaten since being at work. A hunger strike wouldn’t bring freedom or escape. It would only weaken me. That was the last thing I needed, to be so stubborn I put myself in a more vulnerable position.

  I looked towards the windows and saw hints of sunlight stretching beneath the drapes. It was most likely early morning. I slid from the bed and tugged the excess chain along with me as I entered the bathroom.

  After wearing the same clothes for going on two days—a work uniform—and not being able to shower, I felt gross and in desperate need of some personal hygiene.

  Maybe it was a trivial concern considering my predicament, but brushing my teeth was one small normalcy I wanted to take advantage of. I took my time applying toothpaste and going through the motions. I rinsed my mouth with water from the faucet and then splashed some on my face.

  When I opened my eyes, I found Mr. Hawthorne’s in the make-do mirror. I whirled around with my heart in my throat and took a few steps back. I hadn’t heard him enter the room or come up behind me. He stood in the doorway, dressed differently from last night but still just as sharp.

  Every time I saw him, he was dressed so formally. Today it was a black dress shirt beneath a vest that was meticulously tailored to his cut body, making him appear even more imposing than he already was. A dash of color was added with a deep crimson cravat secured by a silver pin.

  “Good morning,” he said softly, clearly amused by my reaction.

  The small space seemed to grow even smaller when he stepped forward and shut the sink off. His dark hair was damp from a recent shower, the stubble lining his jawline freshly trimmed.

  I took a breath and inhaled the exotic scent of his cologne. Something about it was irrationally calming. I studied his side profile and cursed myself for still being unable to deny how gorgeous he was. It made this all the more confusing. I knew someone’s appearance wasn’t a direct correlation with the way they behaved, but I doubted he struggled with finding a woman to entertain.

  He turned and surveyed me from head to toe. I was suddenly overcome with a nervousness I hadn’t felt since I was in high school. I reached up to smooth down my hair without realizing I had done so.

  “Don’t.” He grabbed me by the wrist and gently pulled my arm back down. “You’re beautiful exactly as you are right now.”

  Thanking him didn’t seem appropriate, so I said nothing. He released me and stepped forward, almost bringing our bodies together. And then his hands were cradling my face.

  “Relax,” he demanded softly, his thumbs gently brushing the water droplets from my cheeks. His lips were so close I could smell the minty mouthwash he’d used on his breath. He tucked some of my hair behind one of my ears before lowering his hands.

  “You can shower after we’re done.”

  His words had me taking another step back, and with nowhere left to go, my back hit the wall. Unperturbed, he followed, crouching when he was right in front of me. Seeing this man nearly on his knees tangled my stomach into a knot.

  He reached for the chain, and the warning he’d given before leaving last night flashed through my mind. “What are you doing?”

  “Taking you for breakfast.” He retrieved a sole metal key from his pocket and placed his palm a few inches above my ankle, slowly sliding his hand down.

  I curled my fingers and did my best to ignore the sensations his touch evoked.

  “I’m curious.” He stopped and looked up at me, the hint of a smile inching across his lips. “What did you think I meant?”

  He knew exactly what he was doing and where my thoughts had gone. That was irritating beyond reason.

  “Nothing possibly good,” I replied evenly.

  His fingers wrapped around my ankle and his slight smile became a devious grin. “I promise you deliciae, it will be far better than that.”

  I wasn’t going to respond to such a remark. He inserted his key and unclasped the chain, leaving it to hit the floor with a light thud. I wasn’t sure if I should be relieved or terrified. Mr. Hawthorne stood and returned the key to his pocket.

  “Shall we?” He held his hand out and after a moment of hesitation, I reluctantly accepted.

  He led me from the room and down a short hall with plain dark walls. We emerged into a kitchen, and I couldn’t believe my eyes. I thought where I was being kept was nice. This was a stark contrast to that. Modern appliances coexisted with dark gothic décor, creating an even mix of old and new. Dark cabinetry with intricate carvings lined the walls, while the stainless steel had been shined so thoroughly, I could see my reflection in it.

  The potent aroma of recently cooked food hung in the air along with a floral scent. I didn’t see anyone, though.

  “The staff will be here tomorrow,” he explained, answering my silent thought.

  From the kitchen, we entered a dining room with a round table at its center that had already been set. Large, gilded chairs were placed around it. The crimson upholstery paired well with the rest of the room. It reminded me of how the resort’s amphitheater had been decorated. There was even a fancy candelabrum as a centerpiece, but the candles weren’t lit.

  The drapes in here were drawn as well. I figured this was so I couldn’t see outside. Mr. Hawthorne released my hand and pulled out one of the chairs for me to sit. Once I was seated, he began to load the empty plates in front of me with food from the various dishes someone had prepared.

  “This is too much,” I protested. “I can’t possibly eat all of this.”

  “I’d rather you have more than you want than too little.” He poured what appeared to be fresh orange juice into my glass before sitting in the chair to my immediate right. “I rearranged my schedule to be here with you this morning. I wasn’t going to risk you refusing to eat, so I made sure I’d be around to force the food down your throat if necessary.”

  That was an incentive I couldn’t ignore and a warning if I ever heard one, no matter how softly spoken it was. I bit the inside of my cheek and reached for a cloth napkin, placing it on my lap before picking up a fork. I’d never thought of myself as subservient, but if this is what I needed to do to keep him from hurting me, I’d do it without complaint.

  The worst he’d done so far was spike a glass of wine and bring me here.

  Compared to the crime dramas and Criminal Mind episodes I frequently binged, things could be much worse. I had no way of knowing when that would change, but I wasn’t willing to test the limits of his patience to find out. I began to eat and noticed he didn’t have a dish in front of him.

  “You’re not eating?”

  “I usually don’t until I get to the office.”

  Office. Did he do something corporate then? I didn’t get that vibe. He seemed more like a man who owned a company or two, not who ran one.

  I continued to eat, hoping he couldn’t tell how unnerved I was by the way he was watching me. Despite my unease, the food tasted better than anything I’d had in a long time.

  “Good?”

  I nodded and reached for my glass of orange juice, contemplating how to get him to open up.

  The two most important things for me to figure out were where I was, and what he planned to do with me. That mattered more than the reason why. I’d never been great at small talk outside of work settings, but I had to at least try.

  “Who made all of this? I assume not you.”

  “Are you implying I can’t cook?” His tone was light—I dared say playful.

  Seeing as I didn’t know who he was or anything about him, I couldn’t be sure. Something told me he was good at most things that required at least some level of skill. I wasn’t going to tell him that, though. I made it seem as if I was thinking about it before answering.

  “I think you know the difference between a spatula and a colander.”

  He laughed lightly. “I do. My mother made sure of that. Unfortunately, I can’t take credit for this. After last night, I made a few changes for the better. You’ll meet the cooks soon.”

  If his mom taught him his way around the kitchen, that implied they were close. And it sounded like there was more than one person that cooked his meals. I had heard a woman talking to someone a little bit ago.

  Suddenly remembering he’d been wearing a ring, I scooped up some hashbrowns and subtly glanced at his hands. The band was gone. What did that mean? Was he a divorcee? Maybe a widow? I felt irrationally compelled to know. I didn’t know why. It wasn’t like his relationship status changed the fact that he’d kidnapped me.

  “Curious?”

  “What?”

  “You were looking for my ring.”

  I blinked, caught off guard by how easily he’d just read me, and how casually he brought it up. I didn’t think I’d been that obvious.

  “Are you married? Or divorced? Maybe…widowed?”

  His brow rose the slightest bit. “From your perspective, I suppose I would be all three.”

  “What does that mean exactly?”

  “I’m not single,” he replied calmly.

  I didn’t know what to make of that. Had he removed the ring because I was here?

  “Does your partner live with you?” I glanced around the room as if his admission would summon her.

  “Would that bother you?”

  “I knew you were married when I saw you in your suite. I wasn’t surprised then and I’m still not now. I just don’t understand why I’m here.”

  “You say you weren’t surprised.” He sat back and regarded me with a look on his face I couldn’t decipher. “What kind of man do you think I am, Lolita?”

  “I don’t think I should answer that.”

  His lips quirked. “Well, now you have to.”

  “I think…”

  “Speak freely. I never want you to be anything but honest.”

  Telling him exactly what I thought of him wasn’t wise, given my situation. Sticking with the basics was my safest option.

  “I think you’re someone that’s used to getting what you want…and you either come from money or you do something that allows you to afford a certain lifestyle.”

  “That’s a good observation,” he replied thoughtfully. “I do come from money. My family is a strong believer in generational wealth, but I also work my ass off to ensure you never have to worry about a price tag.”

  “I don’t have to worry?” I placed a hand on my chest to reference myself.

  “Never.”

  His quick agreement and the finality with which he spoke that single word made me lose my train of thought.

  “There is something you got wrong, however.”

  “Which part?” I asked against my better judgment.

  “I’m not used to getting what I want. I take what I want by whatever means necessary.”

  “Is there a difference?”

  “The first implies I occasionally don’t. The second guarantees I always do.”

  Yet again, I found myself lacking a response. I looked from him to my plate, and then around the room. All of this was so surreal. Not only was Mr. Hawthorne one of the most attractive men I’d ever seen, if I hadn’t already known after seeing him in a suite that cost a pretty penny, his own admission confirmed he was wealthy.

  And married. Or at least something like it, whatever that meant.

  “Why am I here? Why did you take me?” I broke down and asked. I couldn’t think of a single reason he’d have to kidnap me. I had nothing of to offer value and was essentially a no one.

  The realization made this all the more real and terrifying. Up until now, I had been doing a great job holding myself together. I was beginning to feel as if I were balancing on the edge of a dangerously steep ravine. One misstep would send me plummeting.

  “Lolita.”

  Why did he keep saying my name with such familiarity, as if it meant something to him? I trained my attention on my plate and forced myself to hold back the bitter, angry tears I could feel gathering in my eyes. The food I’d just eaten settled into my gut like a bag of stones.

  “Look at me,” he commanded, his voice firm, yet oddly soft.

  Begrudgingly, I turned my head and met his arresting stare.

  “What did I tell you when you asked where you were?”

  “You said I was home,” I replied quietly, only now remembering his parting words from the day before.

  “Precisely. I haven’t kidnapped you, Lolita.” He reached out and took hold of my hand. “By my side is where you belong.”

  There it was again. That undertone of finality. I felt like he was implying something I should’ve understood. I didn’t. If anything, I was growing more confused.

  “How can I belong with you? I have no idea who you are. You don’t even—” I stopped and took a shuddering breath. “And your wife. Where does she fit into this dynamic?”

  “You need to calm down.”

  Hearing that from the man who’d kidnapped me—because regardless of what he called it, that’s exactly what he’d done—triggered something in me. It was a response I would later look back on and berate myself for.

  “Don’t fucking tell me to calm down.” I tore my hand free of his and all but dove from my chair.

  It hit the ground with a clatter that echoed from behind me as I ran. My heart beat at a frenetic pace as I sprinted through the intricate corridors of a home I’d greatly underestimated in size. I had no idea where I was going. The only thought in my head was getting away—from him. From this place.