Page 16 of Wicked Sinner

brIDGET

The first thing I do after Caesar locks me in this room is scream.

At first, I yell his name until I hear his footsteps fade, and I know he’s left me here.

And then I just scream, a raw, primal sound of fury that tears from my throat and echoes off the finely painted walls of what I'm sure he considers a perfectly exquisite prison.

The sound surprises even me with its intensity, coming from somewhere deep inside that I didn't know existed.

I scream until my throat is raw. When my voice gives out, I pound on the door with both fists until my knuckles are raw and bleeding. The door doesn't budge. Of course it doesn't. It's probably reinforced, knowing him. Knowing the kind of man he is.

The kind of man who kidnaps pregnant women.

When the pounding doesn't work, I examine every inch of the room with the methodical precision my father taught me when troubleshooting a stubborn engine. There has to be a way out. There's always a way out if you're smart enough to find it.

The windows are floor-to-ceiling, offering a breathtaking view of Miami at night that would probably take my breath away under different circumstances.

Right now, all I can think about is the fact that we're clearly dozens of stories up.

Even if I could get the windows open—which I can't, because they don't open—jumping would be suicide.

And I have more than just myself to think about now.

My hand moves instinctively to my stomach, still flat but already harboring a secret that I should never have given away.

The reminder makes my throat tighten with a tangle of emotions I'm not ready to examine.

Love, fear, protectiveness—and underneath it all, a burning rage at Caesar for putting us both in this situation.

I shouldn’t have said anything. I shouldn’t have gambled that he’d walk away, that he’d run from responsibility.

Instead, he decided that coming inside of me made me his.

The bathroom is equally escape-proof. There’s just a small window, too high up and too small anyway.

No access panels, no convenient air vents like in the movies.

Just expensive marble and fixtures that probably cost more than I make in a year.

Everything here is insanely luxurious, a display of wealth that I feel uncomfortable inhabiting. I don’t belong here.

I belong in my old house with the creaky pipes and the quilt that my mother made me on the bed.

My tiny kitchen with the yellowed linoleum that I don’t want to replace because I helped my parents pick it out when I was a kid.

The garage that I’ve refused to let go of, struggled to keep running, that now—

My throat tightens, and I turn back to the bedroom, surveying it all in an effort to keep myself from crying.

The bedroom itself is larger than my entire living room back home.

There’s a king-sized bed with pristine white linens and a tufted grey taffeta duvet, elegant furniture that looks like it belongs in a magazine, and artwork on the walls that's probably worth a fortune. It's beautiful and cold and completely impersonal, like a high-end hotel room. I’d bet money I don’t have that an interior designer decorated this place, not Caesar.

He probably didn’t have input on any of it.

It’s a remarkably gorgeous, very expensive cage.

I’m exhausted, and I should go to sleep, but I’m too keyed up.

It also feels like crawling into that massive bed and falling asleep here is a concession, like I’m admitting he’s won.

Instead, I comb the entire room again for an escape route, then for something I could use as a weapon.

There’s no phone, nothing that would really be helpful.

I could throw the heavy lamp at him, and I probably will, but there’s not much else.

The hangers in the closet are attached, like ones in the hotels.

This entire place feels like a hotel fancier than anything I’ve ever stayed in, and it makes me more uncomfortable than I would have imagined.

By dawn, I'm exhausted and no closer to freedom than when I started. But I'm not giving up. I'll never give up.

I’m not going to let him win.

I'm sprawled on the floor by the window, watching the sunrise paint the sky in shades of pink and gold, when I hear the lock turn. My entire body tenses, every muscle coiling like a spring as Caesar steps into the room.

And my traitorous heart leaps when I see him.

He’s wearing dark grey sweatpants, the outline of his cock visible against the fabric, thick even when soft, the outline bumpy from his piercings. My lips press together as I force myself not to lick them at the memory of how that felt in my mouth.

The sweatpants hang low on his hips, revealing a sliver of tight abdomen and dark hair between them and the black T-shirt he’s wearing that hugs all his muscles. The ink on his arms is visible, and I look away, not wanting to try to figure out his tattoos and end up staring.

There’s a slight darkness under his eyes, as if he didn’t sleep well either, but other than that, he looks fine. His hair is damp, slicked back, and curling against his neck, and I swallow hard as my mouth goes dry.

A man like him shouldn’t be allowed to look like this. It isn’t fair.

Caesar puts the tray he’s holding down on the top of the dresser, a frown curling his lips as he looks at me. “You don’t look like you slept.” His gaze flicks to the perfectly made bed.

“That’s because I didn’t.” I look at him defiantly.

He lets out a breath, rubbing the back of his neck as he looks at me tiredly. “Bridget, you need rest.”

“Fuck off.” I smile sweetly at him, and he nudges the tray.

“I brought breakfast. Eat, and then take a nap. A long one. You need food and sleep—”

My mouth waters as the scent of the food reaches me. There’s bacon on there, definitely, and orange juice, and what looks like some kind of sweet, sticky pastry. Eggs, I think. My stomach growls traitorously, reminding me that I haven't eaten since the spaghetti I had for dinner last night.

"Go to hell," I tell him without moving from my spot on the floor.

His mouth twitches, irritation clouding his features. "I figured you might be hungry. It's important that you eat regularly now, for the baby. The same goes for sleep, Bridget. I’ll do all I can to take care of you, but—"

The casual way he mentions our child, like he has any right to be concerned about its welfare after what he's done, makes my vision blur with rage. I surge to my feet, and Caesar’s hands go up in a gesture that might be meant to be calming.

It has the opposite effect.

"Don't you dare," I snarl, advancing on him. "Don't you dare stand there and pretend to care about this baby when you just ripped me away from everything I know and love."

"Bridget—"

"No!" I stare him down, hands clenched at my sides.

I can smell him, too—his skin without his cologne, just soap and the fresh, masculine scent of him.

My stomach twists. His dark blue eyes are locked with mine, and a shiver runs down my spine that I tell myself is disgust. "You don't get to say my name.

You don't get to act like you're doing this for anyone but yourself. "

"I'm doing this for all of us," he says quietly. "For you, for me, for our child. You'll understand that eventually."

"The only thing I understand is that you're a monster."

Something flickers across his face—hurt, maybe, or anger—but it's gone so quickly I might have imagined it. "I'm a lot of things, bellissima, but I'm not a monster. Not to you."

“Fuck off with the nicknames,” I growl. "You kidnapped me!"

"I brought you home." His face is implacable, and I want to slap him again.

Something in me cracks at that. "This isn't my home!" The words tear from my throat, raw and desperate. "My home is that garage, that house, everything my father left me. Everything you took me away from!"

"Your father is dead," Caesar says, his voice gentle but firm. "He can't protect you anymore. But I can. From everyone who might want to hurt you. Who might want to hurt our child. From poverty and need and loneliness. I can protect you from all of it, Bridget—"

The mention of my father hits like a physical blow, and for a moment, I can't breathe. The grief is still so raw, so close to the surface, and Caesar wielding it like a weapon makes me see red.

I launch myself at him.

I've never been in a real fight in my life, but fury makes me reckless. I aim for his face, his throat, anything I can reach, my nails seeking flesh. For a split second, I catch him off guard, and I feel a savage satisfaction as my nails rake across his cheek, leaving thin red lines in their wake.

But then his training kicks in.

He moves faster than should be possible for someone his size, catching both my wrists and spinning me around so my back is pressed against his chest, my arms crossed over my body and held immobile by his much larger hands.

I can feel every inch of him against me—the solid wall of muscle, the heat of his body, the steady rhythm of his breathing that contrasts sharply with my own ragged gasps.

Heat flares across my skin, and I’m aware of him pressed against me, of his arousal that’s rapidly growing with every second that I’m held against his body.

"Let me go," I pant, struggling against his hold. But he's so much stronger than me, and the way he's holding me makes it impossible to get leverage.

"Not until you calm down," he murmurs, his voice low and rough near my ear. "I don't want to hurt you, Bridget. I'll never hurt you. But I won't let you hurt yourself either."

"I hate you," I whisper, and I feel him go very still behind me.

"I know," he says quietly. "But that will change. What it doesn’t change is what we need to do."

There's something in his voice, something almost vulnerable—as if he’s trying to convince himself as much as me—that makes me stop struggling for a moment.

His hold loosens slightly, though he doesn't let me go, and I become even more acutely aware of how we're positioned.

Of how my body fits against his, of the way his breath stirs the hair at my temple.

Of the fact that despite everything—the kidnapping, the imprisonment, the complete destruction of my life—my body still responds to his proximity with a traitorous heat that pools low in my belly.

I can feel hard muscle and his hard cock, feel all of that body that gave mine such unimaginable pleasure, and I can’t help but react to it.

"What do we have to do?" I repeat, trying to ignore the way my pulse has quickened.

"Get married," he says simply, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

The words hit me like a slap of cold water, cutting through the haze of unwanted arousal. I start struggling again, harder this time, and he's forced to tighten his grip.

"Are you out of your fucking mind?" I demand.

"It's the logical solution," he says, his voice maddeningly calm. "You're carrying my child. Marriage will legitimize the pregnancy, give our child the protection of my name, and ensure that you're both taken care of. That nothing can get in the way of our union or our family."

I throw my head back, trying to catch him in the face with the back of my skull, but he anticipates the move and shifts away. "Let me make this crystal clear," I snarl. "There is nothing—nothing—you could do to make me marry you."

"Bridget—"

"I will never say those vows. Never. You can lock me up for the rest of my life, and I will never, ever agree to marry you.”

“Bridget!” He snaps my name, like he’s trying to get through to me, but it’s not going to work. He’s not going to get what he wants, not this time—not ever.

“You can’t make me. I have to say it. I have to sign papers. And I will fucking not.”

I tilt my chin up, staring him directly in the face.

“I won’t ever marry you, Caesar Genovese.”