2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Aria

T he chair beneath me is hard and unforgiving. My wrists sting where the ropes have rubbed them raw, and every time I move, the fibers dig in deeper. I’m sure it’s designed this way on purpose. Psychological warfare. Or maybe they’re just cheap bastards who can’t afford more comfortable kidnapping equipment.

I twist my wrists again, because apparently, I’m both a masochist and an optimist. The rope holds firm, of course. My shoulders burn from the strain, and I want to scream in frustration, but that would only give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s gotten to me. Instead, I shift in my seat and blow a strand of hair out of my face.

The door creaks open, and I freeze. My heartbeat spikes, pounding in my ears like a warning drum. It’s probably him. Mr. Big Bad Wolf with his piercing eyes and frustratingly arrogant smirk. Just thinking about him makes my skin itch and my stomach twist, mostly with anger. Mostly.

But it’s not him.

A woman walks in, balancing a first aid kit in her hands. She looks to be in her late twenties, with soft brown hair pulled back into a low bun and eyes that dart around the room like she’s looking out for every possible threat. Her scent is… different. Clean, like fresh laundry and lavender, but there’s something earthy underneath. She’s not human.

“Well, aren’t you a mess,” she set the kit on the table in the corner.

“Gee, thanks. Just what every woman wants to hear,” I snap.

She raises an eyebrow but doesn’t respond. Instead, she kneels in front of me and starts inspecting my wrists. Her hands are gentle, but I can feel the strength in them. She could probably snap my bones like twigs if she wanted to.

“These need cleaning,” she mutters, mostly to herself.

“Great. Maybe you can untie me first, and I’ll handle it myself.”

She glances up, her expression somewhere between pity and exasperation. “I’ll untie you, but only if you promise not to run.”

I blink. “Promise not to run? Did you miss the part where I’m tied to a chair in what I can only assume is your creepy boss’s basement?”

“It’s not a basement,” she says, standing to fetch something from the kit. “And there are guards outside the door. If you try to escape, they’ll catch you, and your punishment will be worse. Trust me on that.”

I swallow hard, the reality of her words sinking in. Not that I was planning a grand escape, - what was I going to do, chair-hop my way to freedom? - But still. The thought of “worse” isn’t exactly appealing.

“Fine. I promise.”

She nods like she didn’t expect anything less and pulls out a pair of scissors. She kneels again and cuts through the ropes. The moment my wrists are free, I rub them, wincing at the raw, red skin.

“Don’t move,” she orders, pulling out a small bottle of antiseptic. “This is going to sting.”

“Awesome. Can’t wait.”

The sting is immediate and sharp, like a thousand tiny needles stabbing into my skin. I hiss through my teeth, but she doesn’t apologize. Instead, she dabs ointment onto the wounds with the efficiency of someone who’s done this a hundred times before.

“Who are you?” I ask, watching her work.

She doesn’t look up. “You can call me Lila.”

“Okay, Lila. Where am I?”

She pauses for half a second, then resumes bandaging my wrists. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to.”

“I’m pretty sure I want answers to all of my questions right now.”

She ties off the bandage and stands, packing up the kit. “Follow me.”

“Follow you where?”

“No questions,” she repeats, heading for the door.

I stay put.

She stops and turns, her eyes narrowing. “Don’t make me drag you.”

The way she says it - calm, matter of fact - sends a shiver down my spine. I rise to my feet, and my legs wobble from sitting too long.

“Fine. Lead the way, Nurse Ratched.”

She doesn’t respond, maybe it’s because she doesn’t know the reference. Not a lot of people have watched the movie. She opens the door and gestures for me to follow.

The hallway we step into is nothing like the dingy cell I just left. It’s wide and airy, with polished wooden floors that gleam under soft, recessed lighting. The walls are painted a warm, creamy beige, lined with framed arts that look old and expensive.

This isn’t a hideout. It’s a freaking mansion.

“Where are we?” I ask, my voice softer now.

Lila doesn’t answer. Of course.

She leads me up a staircase with a wrought-iron railing that curves gracefully at the top. The carpet runner beneath my bare feet is plush, muting the sound of our steps.

We stop in front of a door at the end of a long corridor. Lila opens it and steps aside, gesturing for me to enter.

The room beyond is… stunning.

It’s spacious, with high ceilings and large windows that let in soft, golden light. The bed is a massive four-poster with crisp white linens and a fluffy duvet that looks like it belongs in a magazine spread. A plush armchair sits by the window, and there’s a vanity in the corner with an ornate mirror that reflects the entire space.

I just stand there; this is the kind of room people dream about staying in on vacation. It’s definitely not the kind of room you expect when you’ve just been kidnapped.

“What is this?”

“Your room,” Lila says simply.

I turn to her, my eyebrows shooting up. “You’re kidding.”

“No. Alpha Bane wants you to clean yourself up.”

I blink. “Alpha?”

Her expression doesn’t change. “The shower is through that door,” she continues, pointing to another door off the main room. “You’ll find everything you need in there. Toothbrush, robe, shampoo. Take your time.”

“And what happens if I don’t?”

She shrugs. “That’s your choice. But you’ll still be dirty.”

Before I can respond, she turns and heads for the door.

“Oh, and there will be guards outside,” she adds over her shoulder. “So don’t get any ideas.”

The door clicks shut behind her, and I’m alone.

I stare at the door for a long moment, my hands clenched into fists at my sides.

“What the hell is this?” I mutter, turning back to the room.

The bed looks so inviting I almost want to throw myself onto it, but the thought of getting the crisp white linens dirty stops me. Because she’s right. I’m filthy. My clothes are streaked with dirt, my skin feels grimy, and my hair - well, let’s just say it’s not my best look.

But still. Giving in feels like a defeat, like letting that insufferable man win. And I don’t care how handsome he is with his stupid piercing eyes and his infuriating smirk.

I groan and head for the bathroom, slamming the door behind me.

The bathroom is as ridiculous as the bedroom. Marble floors, a glass shower that looks like it belongs in a luxury spa, and a tub so deep I could probably drown in it. A fluffy white robe hangs on a hook by the door, and the counter is lined with neatly arranged toiletries.

I stare at the toothbrush for a long moment, my stomach twisting.

“Maybe he’s not completely terrible,” I whisper.

Then I catch my reflection in the mirror and scowl.

“Get a grip, Aria. He’s still the enemy. A hot enemy, sure, but that doesn’t mean he’s a good person.”

I turn on the shower and step inside, letting the hot water wash away the grime and the lingering thoughts of piercing blue eyes.

Because I’m not letting him get to me.

Not now. Not ever.

The bathroom steam clings to my skin as I pad barefoot across the plush carpet, wrapping the bathrobe tighter around me. The robe is soft, annoyingly luxurious, and makes me feel like I’ve stepped out of some overpriced spa instead of the bathroom of the man who kidnapped. My hair drips onto my shoulders, the strands heavy with water, and I catch my reflection in the ornate mirror above the dresser in the bedroom.

I drag a towel through my hair. He doesn’t scare me. Not really. Well, maybe a little, in that primal, heart-pounding way that makes my pulse race for all the wrong reasons. But fear and anger are close cousins, and I’ve decided to keep them firmly in the anger column.

The door swings open, and it slams against the wall. My stomach twists, and I spin around, clutching the towel like a shield. And there he is. Filling the doorway like he owns it - because of course he does - broad shoulders, piercing eyes, and that stupid aura of authority that sets my teeth on edge.

“What the hell are you doing?”

He steps inside, ignoring me entirely, his gaze sweeping the room like he’s inspecting it for dust. “Nice to see you settled in.”

“Get out.” I point toward the door, with my towel still clutched in my hand. “Now.”

His eyes finally land on me, and a slow, infuriating smirk curves his lips. “You’re in my apartment. I go where I want.”

“I don’t care if you own the building,” I snap. “There’s a little thing called privacy. Ever heard of it?”

“I’ve heard of it, but it doesn’t apply to you.” He leans casually against the doorframe, crosses his arms and looks entirely too comfortable in a situation where he’s clearly unwelcome. “Not while you’re here.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

The towel in my hand slips to the floor, and I bend to grab it, glaring at him the entire time. “I don’t care what you’ve been called. Get out.”

His smirk fades, replaced by a look that’s sharper, more calculating. “You always this mouthy, or is it just for me?”

“Just for you. Consider it a compliment.”

The tension between us hums, and I hate that my heart hammers in response. This man is the epitome of everything I despise, arrogant, controlling, and completely devoid of basic decency. And yet, standing there in a bathrobe with his stupid blue eyes boring into me, I feel the traitorous pull of something entirely different.

“Why are you here?” I ask. “Or do you just enjoy barging into women’s rooms uninvited?”

“Women don’t usually complain,” he says, his smirk widening.

“Oh, I’m sorry, should I swoon now?”

“You can do whatever you want, princess.”

I hate the way the nickname makes my stomach twist, hate that he says it like he knows it’ll get under my skin.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why not? It suits you.”

I glare at him, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch. He’s entirely too comfortable, standing there like he has all the time in the world to mess with me.

“What do you want from me?

“What are you doing here?”

I blink, caught off guard by the question. “What?”

“Why are you here?” He pushes off the door, closing the distance between us in a few slow, deliberate steps. “On my territory.”

My back straightens, and I lift my chin, refusing to let him intimidate me.

“I am looking for some artifacts for my art.”

“Your art.” He says it like it’s a foreign concept, like the word itself doesn’t belong in his vocabulary.

“Yes,” I snap, crossing my arms. “The old metallurgist factory where I was picked from has some machinery, rusted metal, and decayed metal that I need. They’re beautiful. Unique. I wanted to work with it.”

His expression doesn’t change, but he sure looks amused.

“You expect me to believe you wandered onto my territory for… aesthetics?”

“I don’t care what you believe.”

He steps closer, his presence suffocating, and my pulse quickens despite myself. “I think you’re lying.”

“And I think you’re an arrogant ass,” I shoot back.

His lips twitch, but the humor doesn’t reach his eyes. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that.”

“Gee, thanks. Can I go now?”

“Not until you tell me the truth.”

“I already did!”

“Then why are you so defensive?”

“Because you’re accusing me of lying!”

“Because you are lying.” His voice drops. “Why don’t you tell me the real reason you’re here? Did your Daddy dearest send you?”

The question hits like a slap, and I flinch before I can stop myself.

“What?”

“Did he send you?” He steps closer. “Or did you come here on your own, hoping to impress him?”

“My father doesn’t even know I’m here,” I snap. “And I wouldn’t need to impress him even if he did.”

He laughs a cold, humorless sound that sends a shiver down my spine.

“You really believe that don’t you? That he’s proud of you. That he cares about you.”

“Of course, he cares about me,” I say, my voice rising. “He’s my father.”

“And what about the people he’s hurt?” His voice is sharper now, “The lives he’s ruined? Does he care about them too?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” He steps closer again and locks his eyes onto mine. “You think I don’t know what he does? The trafficking, the drugs, the blood money… should I go on?”

“You’re lying.”

“Am I?” His gaze hardens. “Do you really think a man like Vittorio Sorrenti built his empire without getting his hands dirty?”

“My father isn’t like that.”

“He’s exactly like that.”

I shake my head, the words sticking in my throat. “You don’t know him.”

“And you do?” He leans in. “You’ve been living in a bubble your entire life, princess. You don’t know the first thing about the world he’s built. The world you benefit from.”

The words hit harder than I expect, and I struggle to keep my composure.

“You don’t know me,” I say, my voice trembling. “And you don’t know my father.”

“You’re right,” he says, his voice softening just enough to make it sting more. “I don’t know you. But I know men like him. And I know they don’t get to where he is without leaving a trail of destruction in their wake.”

My chest tightens, and I force myself to meet his gaze. “What gives you the right to judge him? To judge me?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he steps closer, so close I can feel the heat radiating off him.

“You want to know why I’m judging you?” His voice is low, rough. “Because you came here, to my territory, without a second thought. And now you’re standing here, defending a man who would burn this entire world down if it meant keeping his throne. Who would push anything – anyone – who did not fit his agenda.”

My back hits the wall.

“Maybe you should take a look in the mirror, princess,” he says like a growl. “Because the person you’re protecting isn’t who you think he is.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Am I?”

I hate how easily he gets under my skin. How easily he makes me question things I’ve never questioned before.

I meet his gaze. “Yes, you are. And it’s not my fault you’re too dumb to understand something like love and family - or anything else, for that matter.”

The insult lands and his expression shifts. His jaw tightens, his eyes darkening as he takes another step towards me.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “Don’t test me.”

“Or what?”

The space suddenly feels unbearably intimate, and my breaths turn shallow and heavy. A wave of heat pools low in my belly. What is wrong with me? And yet, the forbidden edge of it only sharpens the ache.

I don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s me. But I’m very sure my lips are the ones that find his.

It’s not a gentle kiss; it’s fire meeting fire, a spark igniting something uncontrollable. My hands tangle in his shirt, pulling him closer, and I don’t know whether I want to push him away or pull him further under my skin. All I know is that I’m lost, drowning in this moment, and I don’t want it to end…