19. Tasha

19

Matteo eases his hold on me, and I gasp in relief, tears flowing freely now, but I keep them quiet. If I could just stop being so weak. The man is ruthless, fast, and so freaking strong he could have dislocated my shoulder with just a bit more pressure. As if he knew the exact limit he could physically push me, he hurt me just enough to make me understand fighting is futile.

I'm shaking by the time he steps away from my body. My useless, treacherous body which can't seem to do anything but react to him, oscillating between fear and arousal, but arousal winning every time. This morning he was there, caressing my hair, telling me I'm a good girl for being pure, and it was all I needed to hear. Today I was dunked into a heated hell of thoughts and desires that circled only around him. His possessive hold on my head, his calm presence when I needed it, my freaking disgusting need to please him even more once the doctor confirmed my virginity.

As if I kept myself pure for him.

I have no idea where any of this is coming from. How he managed to get into my head like this in such a short space of time. Manipulating my thoughts, my body, that all I could think of was him the whole day.

I listen to him move away, the soft huff of the leather as he sits down again, the scrape of the wineglass as he picks it up. I look up into the mirror, watch him watching me.

"Join me," he says, pointing to the glass of red wine on the coffee table.

I'd rather burn in hell comes to mind, and I've made a promise that I'll kill him. People like me only murder sober. He didn't confirm anything, but I'm learning that silence is an answer too. Usually a yes. I'm going to Sicily to be sold to some sex trafficking ring they have a stake in. Once I've left American soil, I might as well be dead.

Rather him than me.

"I don't want to spill wine on this dress by accident," I murmur. It's exquisite. The white silk brushing like butterfly wings against my skin despite the weight of the fabric. The cut molds to my body. The way he looked at me tonight left me breathless. I've never felt more feminine, more beautiful, or more like a goddess before. A virginal bride for the slaughter.

"Then take it off." Matteo pulls his gun from the inside holster, hidden by his jacket. As he waits for me to strip, he places it on the coffee table. An invitation.

People like me murder in more than panties alone.

Not that a gun would be my weapon of choice. I've never held a gun in my life, but I don't need one to kill someone. "May I be excused?" I ask, refusing to fall for his bait. "I need the washroom."

He says nothing, and assuming that's his silent yes, I pick up my bra he dropped on the sofa. I reach for the few underwear sets we set aside when Esta arrived, as well as some rather sexy but functional cami and shorts pajama sets Rosalia raved over. I hold them up in a bundle. "May I?"

He takes a lazy sip of wine as he studies me, contemplative. "Sure." He pulls his phone from his inner pocket and it's as if I've been dismissed.

Since I've been kidnapped, I've had eyes on me the whole time, or I was locked up in the safe room or in that hideous corner closet with no way to escape. Now he lets me have free rein? Too good to be true, but I'm not waiting for him to stop me. I rush up the stairs to the second floor, all the while watching him.

His voice is soft as he speaks into the phone, clearly over his earlier burst of anger. Tatiana is a sore spot for him, which is also in sickening contrast to the plans he has for me.

I feel his gaze on me and stop outside the door to my room to look down, eavesdropping while I can.

"No, everything except the black evening gowns. No trousers or blouses. Everything else stays." There follows a pause. "No problem. Put it on the card. Good night."

Crazy infuriating dead man. He most probably just spent over two hundred thousand dollars on clothes I plan to never wear.