Seven days.
A week since a monster with a demon's mask had broken me. I'd spent six of those days in a sterile white hospital room; now I was finally home. But it felt like a different kind of cage.
I stared at my reflection in the mirror. The cuts had healed, but ugly purple and yellow bruises bloomed under the silk of my pajamas; a map of my humiliation.
For that entire week, I'd jumped at every shadow. Every nurse, every doctor's voice they were all him. My bodyguard, Dante Volkov, was just the first trigger for the paranoia. At least, that's what I told myself. His oppressive silence had been the worst part, a constant black-suited shadow in the corner of my hospital room.
I turned from the mirror, a hot coal of rage burning in my chest.
No more," I whispered to my reflection. "No more being a victim."
Today, I would fight back.
I threw open my bedroom door.
Predictably, he was there. Standing across the hall, perfectly still. A granite statue. His dark, empty eyes followed me as I walked down the staircase. The only sound in the house was the click of my slippers and the heavy, measured tread of his expensive shoes on the marble a few steps behind me.
In the dining room, I sat, and he took his post in the corner. His presence was a physical weight, making the air thick.
I stabbed at my eggs with a fork. The sound scratched the silence.
"You don't eat?" I asked, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "Or are you waiting for me to throw you the scraps?"
"I'm working, Miss Moretti," he answered. His voice was calm and low, infuriatingly so.
My fork clattered against the plate. "My name is Izzy. And in here, you're not working, you're suffocating me. I don't need a babysitter."
Your father disagrees."
That was it. No emotion. No reaction.
I stared at him, searching for the flicker of recognition I'd seen in the hospital. There was nothing. Just a professional wall. My suspicion felt ridiculous now. All that was left was cold, hard anger.
I stood up from the table. "I'm going for a drive."
I didn't wait for an answer. I walked toward the garage, his footsteps a steady, maddening rhythm behind me.
The keys to my Maserati were cold in my hand. Freedom. Five minutes was all I needed.
I slid into the leather seat. The engine roared to life, a beautiful, powerful sound.
The passenger door clicked open.
Dante slid inside.
"No," I growled. "Absolutely not. Get out."
"Where are we going?" he asked, his voice calm.
"Get out of my car!" I screamed, the sound echoing in the confined space.
"I am going somewhere. You are staying here."
He didn't answer. His hand shot out.
Click.
The engine died. The silence was a slap in the face. He held the key between his fingers, dangling it just out of my reach.
"Give that back," I snarled.
I lunged for it.
It was a stupid, impulsive mistake.
He moved, blocking me with his body, his arm a steel bar pinning me against the cold leather of the seat. The car suddenly felt like a coffin. His heat surrounded me, the scent of sandalwood and something spicy, something dangerous, filling my lungs. **I could see the dark shadow of his stubble, the way his dark lashes cast shadows on his cheeks as his eyes fell to my lips.
"You're stubborn," he murmured.
"And you're... you're an arrogant bastard," I shot back, hating the way my voice trembled.
He leaned in closer. His mouth was so close to my ear, his warm breath sent a shiver down my spine.
"Let's get one thing straight," he whispered, his voice a low, controlled growl. "Your life doesn't belong to you anymore. It belongs to me. The next person who touches you without my permission dies." He paused, his breath ghosting against my skin. "If you don't behave, that includes you."
He pulled back and got out of the car. He stood there, waiting, his expression once again an unreadable mask.
I sat there, trembling. He hadn't hurt me. He hadn't raised his voice. But he had put me in a cage.
And the worst part?
I was trembling not just from rage, but from a terrifying mix of fear and an excitement I would die before admitting.