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I can't look at him. Not after that.
My face burns hot enough to fry the pancetta all over again. The carbonara that tasted so perfect moments ago now sticks in my throat as I try to swallow past the knot forming there.
It's the best noise I've heard in a while.
His voice had dropped to a sensuous rumble that vibrated through my chest and settled low in my belly. The way his eyes had darkened when he said it... that wasn't the look of a captor to his prisoner. That was something else entirely. Something I shouldn't want.
I force another bite of pasta into my mouth, careful to remain silent this time. The food has lost its flavor but I chew mechanically, desperate for any distraction.
What's wrong with me? I'm abducted and held against my will then I'm... what? Blushing because my captor relished the filthy sounds I make while eating?
I risk flicking a glance up. Alessio's gaze remains fixed on his plate but his jaw is tight, a muscle twitching beneath the dark stubble.
His shoulders stretch his black T-shirts, broad enough to fill the widest doorframe. I'd noticed it earlier when he reached for the pepper—how the fabric pulled taut across his back to reveal the outline of muscles honed through violence, not vanity.
Those hands now delicately holding silverware have calluses that I felt when our fingers brushed during the meal prep. Trigger calluses. Fighter's hands.
My gaze is fixed to his face. The stubble along his jaw isn't the crafted type that men sport in fashion magazines. It's several days of growth that darkens his already severe features, making the cut of his cheekbones more pronounced.
His mouth, usually set in a hard line, loosens as he takes another bite. The same mouth just delivered words that made my stomach flip.
When his eyes dart up suddenly, catching me staring, I jerk my gaze back down to my plate. But the lump in my throat prevents swallowing. Heat crawls up my neck as I stab at a piece of pancetta. I can feel him watching my confusion, the weight of his close attention heavy across the table.
"The pasta will get cold," he says.
I nod without looking up, forcing another bite and keeping my eyes firmly fixed on the food.
CHAPTER 11
We finish eating in lumbering silence. When she stands to clear the dishes, I rise too quickly, nearly knocking over my chair.
"I'll help," I bluster.
She gives a stiff nod, carrying her plate to the sink. I follow with mine, making sure to keep a significant distance. Our bodies move in an awkward dance as we rinse the plates and load them into the dishwasher. Her fingers brush mine as she takes a fork from my hand, and I feel the contact like an electric shock.
"The soap is under the sink," I say.
She crouches down to find it, and I step back, running a hand through my hair. What the fuck is wrong with me?
"Found it," she says, rising with the detergent pod. She drops it into the compartment and closes the dishwasher.
When she turns, her eyes meet mine for the first time since that moment at the table. "I’d like to take a bath before I continue with the USB drive." she says.
"Fine," I say.
I grab the laptop and follow her out of the kitchen, making sure to focus on each wooden step and definitely not her round ass.
"I'll be in my room until you’re done," I tell her when we reach the top of the stairs. I gesture toward the door at the end of the hallway. "I'll come in half an hour."
"Okay," she says.
I watch her walk to her room, then wait until the door closes behind her. I don't bother locking it. The entire house is secured—windows reinforced, doors equipped with biometric locks, perimeter sensors active. Besides, I can monitor her movements through the security system if needed.
Rather than my bedroom I enter the control room and close the door behind me, placing the laptop on the desk. The surveillance feed from Melania's room flickers on the monitor.
She disappears into the bathroom.
I'm scrolling through messages from Noah about Antonio Lombardi's movements when movement on the screen catches my attention. Melania has emerged from the bathroom after barely two minutes, a white towel wrapped tightly around her body. She moves to the closet, pulling open the doors.