Page 51 of Sinful Hearts

Emilio easily found me in the woods, which means I need to search my purse for a tracker. Hell, at this point, he could’ve snuck into my bedroom in the middle of the night and implanted one in my body.

I groan when he pulls me up from the chair.

“What the—” I attempt to wrangle free from his hold as he drags me from the bedroom and down the hallway.

Geesh.

He should just hook me to a leash the way he likes to jerk and drag me around.

When we reach my bedroom, he releases me. “Grab your pajamas, toothbrush, whatever you need for tonight.”

I cross my arms, not moving. “What if I don’t want to sleep in your room?”

“What if I don’t give a fuck?” He moves closer, causing me to stumble backward. “The more you misbehave, the more I feel like locking you in this bedroom and throwing away the key.” He thrusts out his arms to push me toward the dresser. “Now, get your stuff.”

I catch myself before falling. “What if I sleep naked?” My mouth slams shut the second the last word leaves my mouth. I hold back the urge to face-palm myself at my stupid comment.

I whip around on my heel and hurriedly collect my pajamas and robe from my packed suitcase and scramble to the bathroom for my toothbrush. As I leave the bathroom, I glance at the window, another escape plan coming to mind.

You are no Harry Houdini, Liliya.

Plus, you’re supposed to unalive this man.

Emilio makes a show of tapping his foot at my slowness.

I shove my pajamas beneath my armpit, stick my toothbrush in my pocket, and stomp toward him. When I reach him, I expect him to snatch me up like a rag doll again.

Instead, he retreats a step, signaling for me to go ahead.

As I pass, I peer over my shoulder and catch him checking out my ass.

To further mess with him, I sway my hips from side to side.

I’m playing with fire, doing this.

No, I’m playingwith death.

When we return to the bedroom, I try to grab my phone from the floor. Emilio returns to his wrangler-self and snatchesit from my hand, throwing it farther out of my reach. He snaps his long fingers before making a gesture toward the bathroom.

I trail behind him like an obedient dog, stepping into the bathroom. The layout is nearly identical to mine with a double vanity, the granite top outdated but still beautiful, and a glass shower. Except this bathroom has a claw-foot tub, which mine doesn’t.

My focus is on taking in the space, so I don’t even process Emilio being Emilio.

One second, his back is turned to me. And the next, his hand clamps around my arm, and he drags me toward the radiator against the wall. My pajamas fall from my hold during the scramble.

Something cold and heavy snaps around my wrist.

Click.

My arm jerks down, suddenly weighted.

“What the hell?” I twist my wrist instinctively, trying to tear away from him.

Did this asshole seriously handcuff me to the radiator?

I tug at the cuffs, rattle the chain, try to wedge my finger into the lock, but nothing works.

“I need to shower,” Emilio says, casually retreating a step, as if cuffing people to things is the norm for him. “You stand or sit there and be a good girl.”