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I scan the room until my gaze lands on a vase of fresh roses. Not ideal, but it’ll do. Moving as quickly as my unsteady legs allow, I grab the ceramic vase and dump the flowers and water into the bin—well, most of it ends up on the floor, but details.

I wrap the vase in the thick bedcover to muffle the sound, then smash it against the floor. The largest shard fits perfectly in my palm, its jagged edge promising the kind of damage that might buy me enough time to run. I straighten, turning toward the adjoining room.

And scream.

Rocky fills the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, watching me with unsettling calm.

I recover quickly and drop into a low, defensive stance, gripping the ceramic shard until its edge bites into my palm. Every muscle in my body tenses as I take him in. He radiates contained violence, like a beast choosing to stay leashed.

“I’d reconsider taking another step closer.” My warning comes out pitifully squeaky, more kitten than tiger. Even I would laugh if I weren’t so terrified.

Rocky doesn’t even blink. He just stands there, brow cocked, looking at me with the exasperated patience of a parent dealing with a wayward child. His face is stone, but those brilliant green eyes flick over the scene—the unmade bed, the shards at my feet, the muddy flowers by the bin—and then settle back on me.

What the hell do you think you’re doing?They seem to ask.

My heart hammers, each beat a desperate reminder of how thoroughly screwed I am. Since I’m not about to charge at him, so I scramble for something—anything—to say that might throw him off balance. But mymind is blank.

My eyes, though, are another story. They rove over him, unable to help themselves.

Jesus, he’s massive. And beautiful.His dark blond hair is mussed, giving him a rugged, just-out-of-bed look that shouldn’t be this appealing.

He’s wearing a thin white tank top that clings to his muscled torso, gray sweatpants slung low on his hips. Bare feet. Large, bare feet. My brain, unhelpfully, drags up a completely useless trivia—some ridiculous correlation between foot size and certain other body parts.

I push the thought away and force my gaze back up to his extensive tattoos—dark Celtic knots and tribal designs inked across his skin. A metallic beaded necklace glints at his neck, partly hidden by his tank top. A rosary, if I had to guess.

Is he Catholic?

Hot doesn’t even begin to cover what Rocky is. He’s like a magnetic forcefield of decadence, pulling me in despite every rational part of my brain screaming at me to run. My core clenches involuntarily, and I want to kick myself for the reaction.

Get a fucking grip, Luna.

Finally, he speaks. His voice, the gravelly rumble I remember from yesterday, but his words stop me cold.

“Clean this up.” And with that, he turns and walks back into the living room.

My jaw drops.Is he fucking serious?He drugged and kidnapped me, and he’s acting like I’ve just inconvenienced him by making a mess.

Anger flares hot in my chest, mingling with confusion. Without thinking, I follow him out.

The living room unfolds before me, a study in luxury. Its floor is gleaming black-veined white marble, and the floor-to-ceiling windows offer a dizzying view of the Chicago skyline.

Rocky pads to the dining nook, drops into a chair and bends over a chunky mobile tablet. A steaming mug of coffee sits beside him like this is just another ordinary morning.

The table boasts fresh pastries and fruit and my stomach growls traitorously at the sight. Ignoring my rebellious body’s reactions—all of them—I march up to him.

“I’m sorry, I must have missed the part where I announced myself as room service. Now, I demand you let me go, before things get really ugly for you.” My voice comes out strong this time, even if my hands are shaking.

After what feels like an eternity of silence, Rocky lifts his head and glances at the shard in my hand. His gaze then drops to my bare feet, and I suddenly realize I’m about as threatening as a wet kitten. Without a word, he lifts his mug, takes an unhurried sip of coffee then returns to what looks like a 3D map on his tablet.

Refusing to back down, I raise the shard higher. “Did you hear me? I said let me go!”

Rocky sets his mug down with exaggerated care, reaches beside him, and then drops something onto the table.

I blink, staring at it.It’s my purse.

“Your shoes are by the bed,” he says, before returning to his tablet.

Wait—he’s letting me go? Just like that?