Which takes me to thoughts of Liam and Simona.
Sadness sweeps through me. Are they really okay? Would he hurt them because of me? I have to make him promise not to.
I’m about to walk out when I notice the window cut into the stone wall. This one opens, and it’s not very big. I wonder if he was afraid I’d jump if I had the chance. I lift the latch, open it, and breathe in cold, damp forest air.
New York City doesn’t smell like this, but my old house used to.
I listen for sound, for any noise at all, but all I hear is complete and utter stillness. Only a lone bird in the too far distance.
I lean out and look up. When I do, I gasp at what I see.
It’s even bigger than I realized because although the wings have three floors, the central part I’m in has six. It’s huge. A mansion that could have swallowed up my father’s house many times over.
And I swear I feel eyes on me.
I draw back into the bathroom and close that window, backing away from it to return to the bedroom. There’s one more door, hidden by the large headboard of the bed which is set dead center in the bedroom. It’s when I reach to open it that I hear the lock turn on the door in my bedroom.
A woman enters, carrying a tray. When she sees me, she just gives me a cursory glance, no hello, as she sets the tray of food down on one of the tables.
“Who are you?” I ask her, immediately taking a dislike to her. She must be in her sixties. A ring of keys dangles from her belt. She doesn’t bother to answer me but takes her time arranging the food on the tray. The smell of coffee makes me salivate.
“Excuse me,” I say when she finishes and walks toward the door.
She stops.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Elise. I’ll be attending to you.”
“Attending to me?” My eyebrows creep up.
“As Mr. Di Santo sees fit.”
I don’t even know where to start with that. “Wait,” I say as she steps into the hallway. I peer beyond her into the dark corridor. “I need…where is he?”
She arches her eyebrows like she doesn’t know who I’m talking about.
I jut one hip out, placing my hand on it. “Mr. Di Santo,” I mimic her tone.
“Unavailable.” She looks me over, her distaste obvious. “Are the clothes not satisfactory?”
I tug the towel closer. “What clothes?”
“In the closet.”
I follow her gaze. It’s the door I was just going to open. “I haven’t had a chance to look.”
She nods, retreats, and begins to pull the door closed.
I run to grab it. “Wait. I need to call my cousin. I need—”
She doesn’t reply, but with a strength I don’t expect, she yanks the door the rest of the way and locks it behind her.
“What the hell?”
I walk to the tray of food and lift the lid off the plate. My mouth waters at the bacon and eggs on the plate, but I force myself to close it again. Taking the water instead, I drink the entire bottle. I head to the dresser and open the top drawer. It is full of underthings. I inspect a few, all sexy, all lace or satin, and all my size with the tags still on.
There’s a sinking feeling in my belly. He really planned for all of this. He’d been planning while I’d been living my life.
I shudder.
I go to the closet and switch on the light to find a modern interior lit warmly with a yellow light. Hanging from the racks are dresses upon dresses, coats, purses, scarves. On the shelves are sweaters and jeans. Anything I might need. Anything I could ever want.
Except for comfortable shoes, I realize, as I take in the cubbies with their designer shoes, boots, high-heeled sandals adorned with jewels. It even smells good in here.
I grew up with money and never lacked anything, but this kind of money, it’s different than what we had at home and different than what we had with my uncle.
And I don’t want any of it.
I’m his prisoner. He’s made no qualms about that. But he wants me to wear nice things?
Shaking my head, I’m about to walk back out into the bedroom when I see the silk robe hanging behind the door. I pull it off the hanger and drop the towel, putting it on over my underthings. I don’t shower and I won’t wear his clothes just as I won’t eat his food.
I pick up my toiletry bag and head into the bathroom to at least brush my teeth before returning to the bedroom to wait.
10
Cristina
I don’t realize I’ve dozed off until the key in the lock rouses me. I’m confused and disoriented. My stomach hurts from hunger, and when I finally open my eyes, I see the door open.
Sitting up, I tug the robe closer, pulling the long sleeves into the palms of my hands.
Elise walks in first, followed by Damian who is looking at something on his phone. He leans against the wall, his attention on whatever he’s reading.
I watch him stand there. He’s in the same sweater and jeans as earlier, his dark hair slightly tousled like he was just outside. I shift my gaze to his hands, his fingers working quickly to type out his message. I think about those hands. About how he pinned me down. How he must have touched me with them when he undressed me. I wonder if he used his damaged one.
He glances up before I can avert my gaze. He looks me over and raises an eyebrow I guess at the robe. I turn away to look at the older woman. She’s got an irritated look on her face and shakes her head at Damian.
“Was there something wrong with the food?” Damian asks me in a clipped tone.
I rub my face, feeling groggy, seeing how the sun is setting from the window. How long have I been asleep?
I glance through the open door. The corridor is dark, barely lit. I could try to make a run for it.
And go where?
“I asked you a question,” Damian says.
I turn to him. “I’m not eating food from a man who drugged me.”
“Then you’ll be very hungry. Take it away.”
“Yes, sir.” Elise picks up the tray and leaves with it.
I squeeze my stomach muscles to keep them from rumbling as she goes. I can’t remember the last time I ate.
“Does she ask how high when you tell her to jump, or does she just start jumping?” I ask when he closes the door behind her.
Damian is watching me, eyes a cool slate. I’m trying to figure out what the different shades mean. So far, I know black is bad. He doesn’t seem angry now, though.
“You’re stubborn, Cristina.”
“Did you expect me to be cooperative when you kidnapped me?”
He walks toward the bed, and I press my back into the headboard, every hair on my body standing on end. I’m afraid of him. I hate myself for it, but I am.
His gaze slides over me, then returns to my face.
“I hoped you wouldn’t be, honestly, and you haven’t disappointed.”
“Where am I?”
“You’re on Di Santo property.”
“And where exactly is that?”
“A few hours north of the city.”
“How did you do it? With all those people watching.”
He shrugs a shoulder, walking to the window and looking outside. “Those sort of things are easy.”
“Someone must have called the police.”
“Your view of the forest and mountain surrounds the whole of the house,” he says, ignoring my comment. “Do you like it?”
“Do I like my prison?”
He turns to me, and I think he’s seriously waiting for an answer.
“No,” I say.
“That’s too bad.”
“Are you trying to tell me there’s nowhere to go?”
“Why aren’t you dressed? Have you showered like I asked?”
“Why do you feel the need to lock me in if there’s nowhere for me to go?” I ask, ignoring his questions because no, I have not showered, and I wonder if that was wise.
“Have you showered, yes or no?”
“I want to call my cousin. Tell him I’m okay. He’s probably worried sick—”
“I’ve asked you twice now if you showered.” He sounds calm, but I already know that with this man, a calm exterior means anything but underneath.
My eyes itch, so I rub them. “I fell asleep.”
He glances at the empty bottle of water beside the bed. It’s the only thing I took off the tray. “Hmm.” He walks into the bathroom, and I hear the shower go on. I eye the door again, but he’s back before I can think about slipping out.
“Get up.” His sleeves are rolled up, and he’s drying his hands on a towel.
I sit on my knees. “Can I call my cousin?”
He tosses the towel aside.
“Then I’ll shower,” I add.
He gestures to the bathroom. “Water’s already running. Get up, Cristina. I won’t ask again.”
I fold my arms across my chest even though alarms are clanging loud and fast in my head. I want to tell him to go fuck himself and even though I know this is about to spiral out of control, I need to regain some ground. I can’t not fight.
“All right,” he says, and in the next instant, he’s stalking toward the bed.
I leap off and make a run for the door. I almost make it before his arm is around my middle. He lifts me off the floor and tugs me backward into the solid wall of his chest. How can a man be so freaking strong?
He traps my arms at my sides and carries me into the bathroom.
“What are you doing?” I cry out as he sets me down and closes the door.
“Take off the robe.”
“You’re crazy! You’re fucking crazy!”
He smiles so wide that I think it might be worse than that. I think he is absolutely unhinged.
“You’re going to learn fast that I don’t like repeating myself.” The bathroom steams around us as I try to slip past him to the door. I manage to dodge him twice before he has me again and is tearing the robe from me.
I fight him, try to hurt him, but I get nowhere. I hear the ripping of fabric as he yanks the robe off. When I’m standing in just my bra and underwear, he shoves me into the shower stall beneath the spray of water.
He mutters a curse under his breath when his sweater gets wet and tugs it over his head so he’s shirtless. He tosses it aside.
I can’t help but look at the muscles of his bare chest and arms, the tattoos on the undamaged one, the hair on his chest, dark. The trail of hair that disappears down into his jeans darker. My gaze shifts to his arm, and I see that the scarring goes all the way up almost to his shoulder and covers part of his torso.
Was he conscious when it happened? When fire melted his skin right off?
I push water off my face and meet his eyes again. He’s been watching me take in the damage, and he continues to stand there for a minute, then points at my chest.
“Same event,” he says.
I look down at my scar. It’s nothing compared to his, and I have so many questions. So many.
“I—”
“Are you taking the rest of it off yourself, or am I coming in there to do it for you?” He gestures to the things I still have on.
When I don’t answer fast enough, he takes a step toward me. I back up and hold up my hands, palms facing him in surrender.
“I’ll do it! Just go. I’ll do it.”
He folds his arms across his chest and waits. He’s not going anywhere, I know that, don’t I?
I swallow, steel my spine, and reach around to unhook my bra, turning my back to him as I take it off and drop it on the bench in the shower.
“Panties too,” he says when I stop.
I glance over my shoulder at him, keeping one arm banded over my breasts.
We study each other for a moment. I wonder what he sees on my face. What my eyes give away.
I wipe the moisture from my eyes. I’m not fooling him. Even in the shower, he knows it’s not water I’m wiping away.
“Do it,” he demands.
I slip my fingers into the waistband of my panties and push them off, leaving them on the floor, keeping my face averted, my back to him.
“Pick them up.”
I hate him. I fucking hate him.
“Pick them up, along with your bra, and give them to me.”
Humiliation and rage battle within me. “Why?”
“Because I said so.”
I turn to face him, not caring that I’m naked. Not caring about anything at all. “Fuck. You.” I say it slow enough that I’m sure he hears because I’m drawing a line.
He smiles, exhales audibly, wipes a drop of water that’s splashed onto his chin with his thumb.
In those few moments, I watch the metamorphosis. This transformation from human to beast.
To monster.
I scream when he lunges for me, and in the next instant, he’s in the shower with me, my hair tightly in his grip. Our bodies touch, skin on skin, water splashing over us, between us. He has my head craned back, and I blink the water away, wiping my face with one hand, the other on his chest to keep at least those few inches between us.
He looks down at me, at my naked breasts, the nipples peaked as water washes over them. When he returns his gaze to mine, there’s something dark inside his eyes. Something that makes my body react in a way that is unnatural and unwanted.
“What did you say?” he asks me, voice low and quiet and unmistakably threatening.
“I told you to go fuck yourself.”
He tugs my hair as I say it, making me wince with pain. I dig my nails into the skin of his chest and scratch. Even though I draw blood, he only grins. I feel him press against me, his erection growing harder and his predator eyes turning black as I drag my nails down his chest.
“Go fuck myself?” he asks, and his free hand cups my ass and squeezes. “But it would be so much more fun to fuck you.”
I’m on tiptoes instantly, muscles tight, and I hate the whimper that escapes because men like him, they like this. They can smell fear and it turns them on. It turns them into the beasts they are.
“Get off me, bastard.” My voice sounds controlled, but inside, I’m screaming.
“I wonder,” he says as he glances down at my nipples. I’m trying to ignore the fact that they’re pressed against his chest. “I wonder if you like this. If it turns you on.” He returns his gaze to mine. “My guess is yes. I could check to be sure, though.”
“Get off me!” I’m louder now. Desperate.
“How do you ask nicely, Cristina? We just had a lesson not too long ago.”
My options are limited. I know this. As does he, because his smile just grows wider.
“Please get off me!”
“That’s better.” He doesn’t let me go, though, not yet. He gives my ass one more squeeze first, then he releases me and steps out of the shower.
I pant for breath, leaning against the shower wall. He’s soaked, water dripping from his jeans onto the floor. He reaches for a hand towel and dries his face and hair, then tosses it.
“Let’s try this again. Pick up your bra and panties and hand them to me. And be very careful, Cristina.”
I glare but bend to pick them up. I toss them at him, satisfied at the splat when they hit him square in the chest.
He keeps them in one hand, never taking his eyes off me.
I wait for my punishment. It’s coming. I have no doubt.
“Now wash yourself.”
I will kill him one day, I promise myself.
Picking up the shampoo, I squeeze some onto a shaking hand and wash my hair. I don’t bother to condition it. I pick up the loofah, pour body wash over it, and just run it over my shoulders.
He doesn’t say anything when I hang it back on its hook.
“Satisfied?”
“Hardly. But we have time and you’ll learn.”
I scoot out of the way of his arm as he reaches in to switch off the water. I hug my arms to myself at the sudden cold, trying to hide as much
of myself as possible even though he’s seen it all now.
“I hate you.”
“Good. You should hate me. But you will do as you’re told. Arms at your sides.”
“Didn’t you get enough of an eyeful?” I ask, my mouth as usual working faster than my brain. “Pervert.”
He grins. “Oh, I’m going to enjoy you, Cristina,” he says, reaching for a bath towel. Opening it, he steps toward me, and I see us in the mirror’s reflection. Him big and strong and in control. And me naked and stubborn as hell but under his control. No matter how much I want to deny it.
He puts the towel around my shoulders and wraps big arms around me, trapping me before I can even fight him. He lifts me effortlessly off the ground and carries me into the bedroom.
“What are you doing?” I ask when he sits on the bed and lays me down.
The towel falls open, and he takes my wrists, then stretches them up over my head.
Panic surges through me. “What the fuck are you doing?”
He’s leaning partially down, the length of his body alongside mine, almost touching mine. He sets the thumb of his free hand on my mouth, on the scar. He begins to trace it down over my chin, my neck and throat, down to my chest to where it ends at my heart. It’s thicker there, spots darker from where the stitches were. Glass at my heart. Glass like a knife. A centimeter to the right and I’d have died too.
Sometimes I wish I had.
“Do you remember it?” he asks, eyes different when he looks back at me.
I feel my forehead crease at this shift.
“Do you dream about it?” he continues.
How does he know?
“Is that what you were dreaming about last night?”
Blinking, I look away, my eyes burning with tears.
Is he enjoying this part, too? Hurting me like this? Reminding me?
“Do you think we’ll ever stop dreaming about it?” he asks.
I turn my face back to his then, confused. I’ve never talked to anyone about them. Never. Not even Liam. Does Damian dream the same dreams? Does that night haunt him, too?
He’s not smiling anymore, and his eyes take on a distant look. He blinks, shakes his head, then they focus on me again, intense and dark. His gaze then follows his hand as he slides it down over my belly, down to the hair between my thighs.
Unholy Union Page 9