Page 10

CHAPTER 10

Ophelia

My toes pinch soft fibers, digging down to find the bottom of the carpet. It’s so thick and luxurious, I can’t. Knowing the plug will be out soon, I ignore it as best I can as I sit on the green velvet chaise, waiting for Gian to finish. The sound of running water and Gian humming quietly to himself calms me.

Gian and I became fast friends, and as cold as my captor seems, I will need a confidant. Gian comes out of the bathroom, smiling at me.

“All done. Enjoy.” He bids me goodnight and leaves me with a soft kiss on my cheek.

He closes the door behind him, and I welcome the silence. Finally alone, I stand, my muscles clenching the toy. I should undress and get this thing out. A thick, white terry robe is laid out on the bed, a gold braiding sewn down its edges. I run my fingers over the plush fabric, finding an emblem on the chest, a large “V” in the center of a circle made of a pretty design.

“V” for the Villa—my new home.

The word “home” brings up feelings and memories—my mom and grandparents sitting at the table with me, Grandma scooping too-large portions of her famous shepherd’s pie onto my chipped china plate, one from the set she’d brought over from Scotland, calling the china an heirloom. Grandpa is teasing that the pearl necklace I wear is the only thing of value we own. I laugh along as Grandma playfully hits him on the shoulder with her wooden spoon, feeling warm but guilty for wanting more than the smallness of this apartment, this table, my family.

I love them all, but as I mature, I want more. I should have been more grateful. Is this my punishment?

Push it down, Ophelia. Too much.

I take off my clothes, and the cool air chills my skin as I slip my arms into the robe and try the belt tightly around my waist. I glance down at the Villa emblem lying against my chest. The Villa—not home, but where I’ll be staying.

For now.

I run my fingers over the pink velvet coverlet as I move further into the room, toward the gleaming white door inviting me in. How is it possible for a bathroom to be even more beautiful than a bedroom? The tile is like ice under my bare feet as I walk over the snow-white tiles to the Olympic-sized pool of a hot tub bath—oval, deep, with porcelain as white and spotless as the floors and the tiled walls.

It’s filled with steaming water and frothy foam, with red petals scattered over the sparkling bubbles. Leaning down, I inhale the scent of lavender and rose.

Losing the robe, I ease into the tub. My hands grip the cold porcelain as I sink further into the warm water. “Oh, my God—that feels glorious.” I’m moaning as each inch of me disappears under the heavenly-scented foam.

I lean the back of my head against the tub's edge, staring up at the ceiling. There are no water marks or stains. The bubbles tickle my skin as they froth around me, only my head and shoulders exposed. I’m alone and relaxed for the first time since Carter climbed into my window tonight.

So why am I glancing at the bathroom door, listening for footsteps?

Am I… hoping…

For him?

“Don’t be silly.” I roll the back of my head right, then left against the porcelain. My shoulder is sore from where the seat belt dug into me, snapping me back against the seat earlier tonight. I sink deeper into the warm water to soak it up.

I think about his ex and the image of her screaming into the night, the headlights eerily illuminating her face. He probably made her that way. And if they had a baby together… if he has a child… I didn’t agree to this marriage in the first place, but if you add in a baby and an ex who almost ran us off the road, I’d be foolish not to run for my life.

The man stole me from my home, spanked me, put a thing in me, and… I raise my hand out of the water, breaking the surface. Spreading my fingers, I watch the bubbles glide down over my skin.

He’s done all these things and more to me?—

And I’ve never felt more alive.

I chastise myself, berate myself.

I tell myself he should be here to remove his torture device himself. I’m listening for his approach because I don’t want to be the one to have to do it. I am lying to myself, pretending I’m looking at the door again because I don’t want to figure out how to get rid of the toy alone.

Not because I want him here.

I’m crazy for not climbing out that window right now, for sinking further into this bathtub instead of trying to sneak out into the night.

I breathe a fake sigh, telling myself I’m relieved I’m alone and he’s somewhere else in this gorgeous house. He’s not coming. This is a do-it-yourself kind of job. I plunge my hand back into the water, fingers creeping between my legs. Lifting my ass from the bottom of the tub, I grip the silicone handle of the plug and give it a little tug.

Nothing happens.

Groaning, I let go, my hand floating to the surface. For a moment, I consider calling for him. That would be even more humiliating than figuring it out on my own.

Do you pull it out fast, like ripping off a Band-Aid? I don’t think so. I remember how it felt when he was putting it in—a slow ease, a fullness. Determined, I grip the handle. “Come on. Don’t be a baby.” I tug harder, like I mean it, and I gain some traction this time. I keep pulling, the middle of the toy widening my channel as it moves downward. Finally, it pops out.

I wiggle my hips. Where there was fullness is now an aching emptiness. Of course, my traitorous mind goes straight to the thought of him fulfilling his promise. What would it feel like if he were to take me… there?

My pussy clenches at the thought. “ Me first ,” she says. Greedy little thing, not wanting to be overlooked by him. His mouth. His fingers. His… well, we all know what I’m imagining.

I leave the toy in the bath, hiding under the bubbles. I can’t look at it. I’ll deal with it in the morning. Moving to the shower, I rinse the bubbles from my skin, scrub everywhere, then wash my hair. I’m so tired I debate sleeping on my wet hair, but let’s be honest, I always complete the task at hand.

Shivering, I dress quickly and climb into bed, enveloped by the luxury of Egyptian cotton, and high thread counts, and my warm, clean hair. My head rests on the pillow brought from home, and my quilt is pinched between my fingers, like a child with a special blanket.

I wake restless in the unfamiliar, luxurious setting of my room. Still, being in a new house, and such a different one to my own, I can’t sleep. I don’t know what comes over me, but now I’m tiptoeing down the hall to his room, praying his hardwood floorboards don’t squeak.

I enter his room, staring at him as he sleeps. He looks so peaceful, so innocent. I know better. His eyelids blink open.

At first, I detect irritation in his eyes. My heart drops. I turn to leave. In my weakness, I take a last look at him. I find confusion in his gaze, not annoyance.

He’s barely awake, if even.

Lifting the blanket with trembling fingers, I crawl into his bed.

I hold my breath as my skin hits the cold sheets in the empty place next to him, and I await the humiliation of his rejection. Instantly, he surrounds me—warm and protective. He smells of clean soap and a sleeping man.

The adrenaline that hardened my muscles as I crept down the hall now slowly releases, softening me. He buries his face in my hair. The barely there scruff along his chin scrapes lightly over my skin. Tingles dance over my scalp as he nuzzles against my neck.

I melt into the protective cocoon of his embrace.

He seems like a heavy sleeper. I’m an early riser, and I can sneak out before he wakes up. I allow myself to sleep.

At four a.m., my eyes pop open like they’ve done every morning since I hit puberty. I find the habit annoying, but my grades don’t come easily, and with as much effort as I have to put into my schoolwork, I’ve often counted it as a blessing. Now, my ungodly natural wake-up hour allows me to leave undetected.

It’s bad enough I wished for him when I was in the bath—did I have to come crawling into his bed last night, too? Like a lost little girl awakened by a nightmare, tiptoeing into her father’s room for warmth, security, and comfort.

I move slowly, creeping out from under his arm. He moans, turning onto his back. His face—angelic and peaceful—is so beautiful that a pang tears through my chest at the sight. The same feeling came over me during our school trip to Rome when we toured the Sistine Chapel.

Still, I don’t know why I came to him.

I press the fluffy duvet around him, hoping the blanket’s warmth will keep him asleep. Then, I crawl to the edge of the mattress. He moans again and turns toward the wall, his naked back now facing me: smooth olive skin, curved muscles.

His shoulders… those are man shoulders.

I fight the urge to crawl back under the covers and press my face against his warm, bare skin. I won’t. I am more intelligent than that.

After my foolish decision to sneak into his bed in the first place, I need to leave and get to my schoolwork. I slip from the room, pulling the door almost closed behind me but not engaging the latch. I can barely believe I chose him for my comfort on my first night away from home.

I wash my face and brush my teeth and hair in my room. Then, I quickly put on black joggers, a white T-shirt, and a gray hoodie from home. I leave my hair down and head to the door. Passing the mirror, I glance at my reflection.

I look…presentable.

Should I at least put on a little mascara?

For whom, Ophelia? I chide myself.

Will a bit of makeup take you from your solid six, maybe six point five in a dress, to his solid ten?

Look around this place. His car. His face. Those shoulders. The man’s probably got supermodels lined up on his online dating accounts.

I’d be his swipe left, and that’s fine with me.

Pfft.

I grab my backpack, slinging it over my shoulder, and think how nice it was that Haze carried my stuff to the car last night. Carter never offered to help me before. I think back… nope, not even when I was carting a storage bin of dictionaries to a classroom on the third floor for French Club.

Carter never took you prisoner, either. Or stuck anything up your ass…

Okay, okay, moving on.

The smell of freshly brewed espresso and something newly baked hits me as I descend the stairs. I tiptoe around the corner, peeking in the kitchen. Gian stands by the oven, an icing bag in his hands.

“I heard you like those little American cardboard pastries you put in the toaster. I decided to make my own. Fresh fruit filling and no preservatives. Better for your health.” He turns over his shoulder to toss me a smile. “Though you have flawless skin despite your teen diet.”

The scent is divine. This must have been a lot of work. “You do not have to go through this trouble for me! I can make oatmeal or something.”

He raises his thick brows. “Sit.”

“Yes, sir,” I laugh.

The one time I don’t have to question myself for allowing a man to boss me around—when he’s about to feed and caffeinate me. I slip into one of the high-top barstools at the counter, pulling my computer from my backpack.

“Here you go, T esoro .” He slides a vanilla latte with a cinnamon sprinkle across the counter without my even making a request.

Wrapping my hands around the heat of the clay mug, I bring it to my face, inhaling the sweet-spicy scent. “Gian, you’re too much.”

“I think I’m just enough.” He plucks a perfectly iced pastry from the cooling rack, popping it onto a plate. “Now, how do you say it’s a lovely morning to study in French?”