Page 16 of Hunted to the Altar (Caputo Crime Family #3)

Her body tensed, her fists clenching at her sides, but she didn’t pull away. The tension between us was suffocating, a taut string ready to snap. And for a moment, I reveled in it, in the way she challenged me, the way she made me feel alive in a way I hadn’t in years.

I stepped back deliberately, putting distance between us, though I could still feel the pull of her presence. The air between us vibrated with unsaid things, her eyes boring into mine with a defiance that both infuriated and captivated me.

“You’ll see,” I whispered, almost to myself. “One day, you’ll understand.”

As she turned and stormed off, I watched her retreat, a slow smile spreading across my lips. She was chaos. She was bold.

I wasn’t done with her yet. Not tonight.

Later, when the penthouse had settled into its nightly stillness, I found her in the bedroom getting herself ready. She fascinated me.

Not just in the way a man is drawn to a woman—though God knew I was pulled to her like she had gravity in her skin, but in the way an unsolvable puzzle gnaws at the edges of your mind, making you desperate to understand it.

I wasn’t used to women moving like Nina did. Deliberate. Unhurried. Not for show, not for seduction, but because she simply existed in a rhythm that was her own. She didn’t rush for anyone, not even me.

I leaned against the doorway of the en suite, arms crossed as I watched her in front of the vanity. She hadn’t acknowledged me yet, which meant I’d either pissed her off, or she was pretending I wasn’t there.

Her silence was a test.

The overhead light was off, the only illumination coming from the warm glow of the vanity bulbs that framed the mirror. They cast her in a golden hue, highlighting the deep richness of her skin, the soft curve of her bare shoulder as she pulled her braids over one side.

She still smelled like the lavender scrub she used in the shower—natural, earthy, a scent that would cling to my sheets when I finally got her to stop pretending she didn’t want to sleep in my bed.

I’d been in love with computers for as long as I could remember. Code made sense. It was predictable. If something didn’t work, I could break it down and find the exact line that needed fixing.

Nina was the opposite.

She didn’t need fixing. She was already built perfectly for herself, and she didn’t give a damn if I understood her or not.

She opened a jar of shea butter, scooping a generous amount into her palm and warming it between her hands before smoothing it over her legs. She worked slowly, massaging the rich moisture into her skin until it gleamed in the light.

I was fucking hypnotized.

“You just gonna stare, or you planning on helping?” Her voice was thick with exhaustion, but she didn’t bother looking at me.

“Didn’t know this was a two-person job.” My smirk was automatic, but she still didn’t look up. “I thought self-care was a solo thing.”

She clicked her tongue, shaking her head. “You say self-care. I say maintenance.”

I pushed off the doorway and took slow steps toward her, watching the way her eyes finally flicked to me in the mirror as I approached.

“What’s the difference?” I asked, coming up behind her.

She sighed like she was already tired of explaining something she knew I wouldn’t fully understand.

“Self-care is indulgence. This—” she gestured at the routine she was working through, “—this is just what has to be done. My skin can’t be out here ashy, my hair can’t be neglected, and my edges—” she pointed at her hairline, “—are a priority. You men get to roll out of bed, splash water on your faces, and be done. We don’t have that luxury. ”

I watched her as she picked up a boar bristle brush and worked her edges into place, the sleek waves forming in patterns that I was sure took skill. I knew better than to touch, but I was tempted.

“You saying I don’t have a routine?” I asked, placing my hands on her hips.

She finally looked up, meeting my gaze through the mirror. “Oh, you definitely don’t. You just roll through life raw-dogging existence.”

I chuckled at that. “Not true. I shower.”

She scoffed. “Bare minimum.”

I grinned, fingers tightening slightly on her hips. “You saying you want me to step my game up? Get some fancy oils? Maybe a bonnet?”

That earned me a laugh, soft but genuine.

“I’m saying if you’re gonna be in my space, you need to learn that a Black woman’s nighttime routine is sacred.

And if you don’t respect it—” she trailed off, dipping her head as she started tying her braids into a silk scarf, securing it in smooth, practiced motions.

“—then you don’t deserve to be in my bed. ”

I lifted a brow. “That an invitation?”

She rolled her eyes, grabbing a tub of body butter and tossing it at me. I caught it easily.

“You wanna stay? Moisturize.”

I looked down at the tub in my hands, then back at her. She smirked, finally satisfied, and turned back to the mirror.

I took my time opening it, rubbing the rich cream between my palms before smoothing it over my forearms.

Maybe she was a puzzle I’d never solve .

But I’d be damned if I didn’t enjoy trying.

As I worked the butter into my skin, I noticed her side-eyeing me in the mirror, like she was waiting for me to complain.

I hummed, pressing my hands together. “Not bad. Maybe I should upgrade my whole routine.”

She huffed a small laugh. “Step one: don’t look like someone had to force you into basic skincare.”

I moved closer, slow and deliberate, feeling the air shift between us. “Step two?”

“Respect my peace.” She dragged the last bit of butter over her collarbones, massaging the moisture in before lifting her gaze to mine. “That includes not talking while I’m getting ready for bed.”

I smirked, leaning against the vanity, watching as she picked up her bonnet and adjusted it over her braids.

“You’re real serious about this whole process,” I murmured, watching her fingers move with precision as she secured every last braid into place.

She turned, shooting me a dry look. “You imprisoned me. You don’t get to question my peace.”

I smirked, rolling my shoulders. “Imprisoned is a strong word. I’d like to think you’re my guest.”

She rolled her eyes, crossing her arms. “Prisoner, you mean.” Fire flashed in her eyes.

“Semantics,” I said with a shrug, taking another step toward her. She didn’t back away, though her muscles tensed, a clear sign she was ready to bolt if necessary. I liked that about her. The fight. The fire.

“You’re insufferable tonight,” she muttered, brushing past me as she tried to leave the bathroom.

I caught her wrist gently but firmly, stopping her in her tracks. “Am I?” I asked, my voice soft but dangerous.

“Yes, for crying out loud, give me some breathing space,” she glared, trying to pull her arm free. “As you can see, I’m trying to get ready for bed, not that it’s any of your business.”

“Oh, it’s entirely my business,” I murmured, stepping closer until there was barely any space between us. Her breath hitched, her pulse quickening beneath my fingers. I leaned in, my voice dropping to a whisper. “Everything about you is my business, Nina. Don’t forget that.”

Her eyes darted to mine, wide with both fear and something else. Something she refused to name. She pulled her wrist free, her chin tilting up defiantly.

“You can’t control everything,” she said, her voice trembling slightly.

“Watch me,” I replied, my smirk deepening. “And if you keep testing me, Nina, I’ll show you just how far my control extends.”

She stormed past me, but I didn’t follow. Instead, I stayed in the bathroom, the taste of her confrontation lingering in the air like a drug I couldn’t quit. She could run, she could fight, but in the end, she was mine.

And I would make sure she knew it.