Page 9

Eight

Ophelia

It’s just clothes. A silly, juvenile trick to set me off my game and make me feel weak. I’m a Calder, and it doesn’t matter if I’m dressed in a suit, naked, or wearing a goddamn clown costume. Nothing can change that fact. Even as a captive, I have power.

I repeat the words as I stare at myself in the mirror, but it’s hard to believe them. I’ve been here less than a day, and he’s already made me dress myself like a stripper. My stomach growls, reminding me why I went along with his demands. It’s been a full day since I ate anything, and that was just a slice of toast.

I’ve never been this hungry before. My hollow stomach aches, and my legs wobble as I walk to the door. Logically, I know I’m nowhere close to starving—humans can go days without food and be fine—but logic isn’t helping right now, and the hours by myself with nothing to distract me from thinking about food have worn me down.

If I refused to play his stupid game, he’d have made me wait for lunch. Then dinner. On and on, until I finally cracked. I should have just done this last night, when I felt stronger. Refusing gained me nothing, and now my emotions are boiling close to the surface. I want to scream, or burst into tears, or both. Neither will work.

My hands twitch toward the skirt as I reach the bedroom door, but I force them down to my sides. It won’t help. I’m sure he’s waiting right outside, ready to gloat at his little win.

What is his endgame here? What does he want? I need to work it out, but anxiety is a swarm of buzzing bees, drowning out my thoughts. He dressed me like a cheap hooker. Is that a sign of how he plans to treat me? When he opens this door, just what in the hell is he going to do to me?

My hands shake—whether from hunger or fear, I’m not sure—and I ball them into fists. Breathe. You can do this.

I still jump when the door opens. I try to stand straight and tall, but instinct takes over, and I stumble back a step as adrenaline scorches my bloodstream. The clothes felt ridiculous a moment ago, but now, faced with Sebastian in the flesh, all I can think about is how exposed I am. How I’m dressed up as he demanded, for his amusement.

I finally force my eyes to focus on the man in the doorway. He’s tall, and not in the gangly, high-school way my lingering memory tells me he should be. He’s filled out in the last ten years, still lean but strong, broad shoulders complimented by his perfectly tailored suit.

He’s immaculate, and everything, from the pale gray suit fabric to the eggshell shirt to the cufflinks with a hint of blue to match his eyes, tells a story of time and care taken to select it.

I’m used to powerful men having a rough edge. My father and brother both aim for elegance, but there’s savagery there, too. Sebastian is almost too handsome to be scary, but when he smiles, a shiver runs through me. There’s something predatory about it. A darkness hiding behind his perfect face .

And worse, he’s enjoying this.

His gaze tracks up and down my exposed skin, and I fight the urge to wrap my arms around myself like a stupid teenager. No. That’s the reaction he wants, and he’s not getting anything he wants from me. Not a single damn thing. I’ve already given him way too much by dressing myself like this.

“What do you think of the outfit?”

His voice, free of the affected gravelly rasp, is deeper than I expect. There’s melody to it, and the cultured tone perfectly matches his appearance. Everything about him is so tailored, and none of it gels one iota with the boy I remember. It’s like this man erased that person from the world and took his place.

But here it is, the battle I’ve been craving. I straighten my spine and look him right in the eye. “Let’s move past this silliness, shall we? I’m not sure what point you were hoping to make, but I’m a busy person, and I’m sure you are too. Why have you brought me here? What do you want from my family?”

I imagine myself dressed in my suit and heels, speaking with an antagonistic business associate.

Think win-win.

How can we both leave the table feeling like we’ve had a victory? Sebastian tilts his head to the side, and his brow creases. “From your family? Absolutely nothing. I don’t think your father would suit that outfit half as well as you do.”

The throwaway comment should be ridiculous, but the predatory gleam in his eye means it isn’t. Not even a little bit. Sebastian leans against the doorway, relaxed and casual. “Spin around.”

The order is so far removed from the conversation I’d expected that I trip over it. “What?”

“Spin around. I want to see how your ass looks in that skirt. It looked great on camera, but there’s nothing like the real thing. ”

On camera. Does he mean in the bathroom? Jesus. My skin heats, blood rushing to my face. I’d wondered but hadn’t really thought he’d watch me. Or I just hadn’t wanted to.

Control is slipping away, if I ever really had any in the first place. “No. I—”

“Okay. Just stay still, then.”

He saunters forward, and my body locks up. My instincts scream at me to run, but the part of me still clinging to the hope I can negotiate my way out of this holds me in place. If I run, I’m prey.

If I run, he’ll catch me. And I can only think of one thing that would happen next.

I stand like a statue, frozen in place as he makes a slow circuit of me, eyes roaming my body. I swivel my head to keep him in sight but don’t move to obstruct his view. Any movement at all feels like it would snap the invisible force keeping him at arm's length.

He comes to rest in front of me, a satisfied smile on his lips. “Good girl. And I definitely underestimated how curvy you are. You hide it well under those sensible clothes, don’t you? That’s the kind of ass that’s just begging for a smack.”

All I can do is stare. Guys don’t talk to me like this. No one dares. With a father and brother as terrifying as mine, the few men who actually make it past them to the dating stage are polite and respectful and keep their hands to themselves.

Why isn’t Sebastian scared? Why does he think he can treat me like this with no consequences?

The thought bolsters me, even as my skin burns from his scrutiny. He’s talking to me like this because I’m letting him. I need to put him in his place.

“If you stop this nonsense right now, there’s a chance I’ll be able to stop my father from killing you. If he doesn’t already know I’m here, he will soon. What do you think is going to happen when he arrives? Let’s be real. Stop these games. Tell me what’s really going on.” I pause, then another thought springs to mind. “And just where the hell are we?”

His smile widens at that, and it ratchets my nerves up an extra click. It feels like I’ve stepped into a trap, and the impression solidifies when he says, “I thought you’d never ask. Come.”

He turns his back on me and strides out of the room. I stare after him, torn. Following him feels like obeying his dismissive order. But I also really, really want to leave the bedroom. Trying to have a conversation with a bed right there isn’t helping at all.

I hesitate a moment longer, then follow him out of the room.

I walk out into a living room that’s as classy and expensive as the bedroom. Stylish furniture, subtle lighting. I recognize the hand of a professional designer who knew what he was doing. But all that pales when I lay eyes on the dining table.

Food. It’s covered in food. My nose catches up with my eyes, and the smell of fresh baked bread sets my empty stomach roaring. Bread, butter, jam, croissants, pastries, muffins, cereal. A steaming pot of hot coffee. My eyes latch on to it, my feet stop moving, and my damn stomach lets out a loud, undignified growl.

Sebastian stops and turns to look at me with a smirk. “Hungry? We’ll get to that in a moment. I want to show you something first.” He turns away again, heading for the huge, floor-to-ceiling picture window that covers almost all the wall. Through the glass, the forest stretches out. In any other situation, it would be beautiful. Now, it just chills my blood.

He stares out of the window, his back to me. I glance between him and the food. My stomach twists again, and I make my decision. Screw him. I head to the table and reach for a muffin.

“Don’t. ”

The word is the crack of a whip. My head snaps up to find Sebastian’s gaze locked on me. My hand freezes of its own accord. His face is deadly serious. No knowing smirk.

He takes a single step toward me. Then another. I can’t stop staring at his eyes. Were they that shade a moment ago? In this light, they’re a Mediterranean sky, vivid and trained on my hand like lasers.

“You don’t touch that without my permission.”

His permission? Alarm bells scream at the serious look on his face, but that word mutes them to a dull roar. He wants me to ask his permission to eat? No. Just no. I’m starving, and I’m having a goddamn muffin. I stretch out my hand.

He moves but doesn’t race toward me. His steps are measured, and his eyes don’t leave mine as I grab the muffin. I clutch it as he reaches me, close enough I can smell his light, spicy cologne.

Run.

My instincts scream it, and my body vibrates with the need to move, but I fight it. I fight it with everything I have, because if I run, this is real. If I run, then he’s not a foolish man messing with the wrong woman. If I run, he’s my captor and I’m his prisoner.

Run.

No. This is all bravado on his part. He won’t touch me. He won’t dare. He won’t—

“Drop it.”

Danger. Danger. Danger.

You’re a Calder. Act like it.

I draw myself up as high as I can and will my trembling hand to move. The damn muffin weighs a thousand pounds, but I force it to my lips.

“Last chance. ”

My stomach contracts, and if I had any food in me, I’d probably throw it up, but I open my mouth to take a bite.

Sebastian’s hand flies out, knocking the muffin from my grasp. Before I can react, he surges forward, and my feet leave the floor as he grips me around the waist and lifts me up, pressed against his hard chest. Shock paralyzes me for a second, and then I scream, flailing and kicking. It does no good.

There’s a scraping noise, then he thumps me down onto a chair. His weight bears down on me, holding me in place. His rough breaths are loud in my ear as he grabs my wrist and drags my hand down to my side. What…

Something hard clicks around my wrist. I stop fighting long enough to stare. Handcuffs. He’s locked my wrist into a cuff attached to the back of the chair.

No.

When the panic hits, it hits with all the pent-up force of the last twenty-four hours. The locked bedroom door, the outfit, the dirty remarks. I could just about believe they were part of a game, some ploy to soften me up before he made his demands. But this? No. Something about that metal cuff around my wrist lets loose the terror I should have been feeling all along.

I throw my other hand up, though I’m not sure what I’m trying to achieve. Punch him? Fend him off? It doesn't matter, because he catches it easily, then locks it into the matching cuff on the other side. I yank at them so hard the metal digs into my skin, but it’s no use.

“Help!” My shrill voice hurts my ears, and the force of the scream rips my throat, but I don’t care. “Help! Someone help! Please!”

I lash out with my legs, and one of them connects with Sebastian’s shin. He steps back with a grunt, then drops to the side, grabbing my flailing ankle. I know what’s coming, but I still scream when he clips a cuff around the ankle, too. In another moment, both my feet are secured.

I’m trapped.

“Help! He—”

His hand clamps over my mouth. I mumble into it, but he just waits patiently until I fall silent. He shifts his body so he’s kneeling in front of me, hand still pressed to my lips. One look at his face has my body shaking as he examines me.

There’s something wild about him. His perfect hair is tousled, and his jacket sits askew, but he doesn’t seem to have noticed. His wide, dark pupils push the vivid blue to a thin ring. And his lips—God, they’re parted in a way that makes me think he’s going to bite.

The air between us charges as his gaze slips lower where, I realize, my top has been yanked down in the struggle. My breasts jut out, shoved up by the stupid bra, and he draws in a long breath as he runs a finger along the top.

It’s a quick touch, just a single moment of contact, but it burns. It burns because he did it. He touched me.

With a warning look, he pulls his hand away from my mouth. I lick my lips out of reflex, and there’s a lingering taste of salt. I can yell again but don’t. He hasn’t explained one single thing, but his actions have said more than words could.

This isn’t a business deal. He’s not softening me up for negotiations. I’m his captive, this is all real, and I need to be very, very careful.

His throat works, and his chest rises with an unsteady breath. He looks at the hand he used to touch my breast, then back to my face. Slowly, he tugs his jacket straight and smooths his hair back into place.

Then he smiles. “Now that little tantrum is out of the way, let’s try and have a civilized conversation.”