Pathetic.Spineless.That’s me now.
I get close enough to catch his pinky finger.Just barely.A loose, tentative grasp.But it’s enough.Because he stops.Instantly.Like hehasto.
And as if pulled by a force neither of us can resist, he turns to face me.
“Why am I here, Stefano?”I ask.
“I already told you,” he snips with a bite of frustration.Though it seems to be more with himself than me.
“Tell me again.”
Softness seeps into his dark eyes as they sweep over my face.That darkness in him dims to something deeper, quieter.“I’m addicted to looking at you.To being near you.To breathing your air.”He brushes his knuckles across my cheek and I lean into the touch, helpless.“You’re fucking exquisite, my little liar.I look at you and every inch, every curve, every line, every strand of hair on your skin…all of it…all of it feels likemine.”
Because I am.
God, why am I so weak for his lies?I search his face for signs of artfulness, any hints of manipulation, any cues that I’m being played like a fiddle.But there’s…nothing.Because he’s Stefano.The one man I’ve never been able to accurately read.Because he’s too good.Too cunning.Tooskilledat misdirection.
And I’m too undone by him.
Dubious as I am, my so-called restraint is on E now.Running on fumes.Leaving me unguarded, exposed, vulnerable.And I hate myself for it.He could do whatever he wants to me right now.
Like a fool, starved and desperate, I lap up his words and melt at his feet.
“Okay,” I whisper.“I’ll stay.”
His gaze drops to my mouth, and his hand comes up to trace the curve of my bottom lip with the pad of his thumb.So soft, so slow, borderline reverential.
Weak in the knees, weak in will, I tip my chin up.Hoping he’ll ask to kiss me again.
Ask me.Kiss me.Please.
“I lied,” he confesses, voice hoarse.“I wouldn’t have let you leave.”
Of course not.He merely left the rope just long enough to see if I’d run.If Icould.
Because he knew I wouldn’t.He knows I’m into him.Want him.
And my pathetic ass didn’t use an inch of that rope.I just caved on the spot like a punctured bounce house.
A sudden crack of thunder explodes overhead, sharp and guttural, as if the sky itself is splitting open.It’s immediately followed by a phone ringing from somewhere deeper in the house.
“I’ve been waiting for that call.I’ve got to go take it,” Stefano says, already turning toward the sound, walking off.“There are things for you in my room upstairs.Make yourself at home.”
Before I can ask what the hell he means bythings, he’s gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Raya
UPSTAIRS, IN STEFANO’S ROOM, a rack of clothing sits parked just outside the closet.My name printed on the display tag affixed to the sleek stainless-steel bar leaves no doubt it’s for me.
The “things” he mentioned…
All the pieces are soft, delicately feminine.In varying shades of gold, ivory, burgundy, and emerald-green.Short skirts and mini dresses, sleep sets and lingerie, silks and laces.All in cuts and styles I never wear unless I have a very specific reason.
Well...I’m here with nothing to wear.That’s a reason, right?
You’re his doll, you fool.His plaything.
