Hold You Against Me

by Skye Warren

  I shiver because I don’t want to imagine Giovanni giving that order. But it’s not like the locked door or the armed guard outside are particularly subtle. I’m his prisoner.

  “Please,” I whisper. “I’ll get Lupo. We won’t cause trouble. Don’t tell Giovanni what happened.”

  A drop of orange-yellow pierces the darkness. Giovanni is sitting in an armchair, large body reclined, one ankle slung over his leg, a lighter in his hand. The flame dances from the silver cylinder, casting eerie shadows on his face. “What shouldn’t he tell me about?”

  My pulse pounds in my ears. “God, you could give a girl a heart attack.”

  “I’m sorry,” Romero says, his voice clipped. “The dog got out.”

  “And the girl?” Giovanni says, his voice low and liquid.

  I plant a hand on my hip. “The girl is grown up. And she got out too.”

  A smile in the dark, the flash of white teeth. The Cheshire cat’s smile. “Careless,” he says.

  Romero swears under his breath. “It won’t happen again.”

  “Leave.”

  “But—”

  “Now.”

  Romero’s embarrassment and anger bubbles in the air behind me, and I know I’ll have to deal with him later. For now I have to deal with the man in front of me. As my eyes adjust to the dark, I see a small and trembling figure in the corner, behind an antique globe. Footsteps recede as Romero follows orders.

  “I’ll just get Lupo and go.” Whatever courage I felt when I corrected Giovanni left with Romero. Now I’m alone in a room—in the room—and all I want is to leave.

  “Wait.” The word is soft but clearly a command.

  I wait.

  He stands, still holding the lighter up. One step closer. Without thinking it through, I take a step back. We move that way, one forward, one back, until the wall stops me. This was a bad idea. Everything about this is bad, from the fact that I just moved into the shadows to the way he’s looking at me. Hungry. Starving, like he needs to devour me just to survive.

  “Giovanni,” I whisper. “Let me get Lupo. We’ll leave you alone.”

  His dark gaze flicks down to where my camisole doesn’t cover enough of my breasts, the orange-yellow light warming my curves. “Careless,” he says again. “What had Romero so distracted?”

  The way he says it, he knows. He may not know that I was teasing Romero deliberately, trying to soften him up so he’d help me. But he knows exactly what Romero was looking at when Lupo escaped.

  They’re a distraction, but I need a different kind of distraction right now. “What did Romero do wrong that you assigned him to dog walking?”

  “It’s more what he didn’t do.”

  I can’t forget how quickly Romero spoke out against Giovanni. It’s something I might be able to use to my advantage, but it’s also dangerous for Giovanni. I suspect he knows that. It’s a little hard for Romero to plan a coup if he never leaves the mansion. “Friends close and enemies closer, is that it?”

  He makes an approving sound. “You understand the life.”

  Anger flashes inside me. “I understand it, but I don’t want it. You have no right to force it on me.”

  “That’s just it, bella. Force gives me the right to do anything I want.”

  Fear quickens my heartbeat—fear and something else. Something like anticipation. It must be muscle memory, except the muscle in question is my heart. It remembers that it loves him, even if it shouldn’t. That’s the only explanation for how I can still want a man who holds me against my will.

  A flick of his thumb and the lighter shuts off, plunging us into darkness. The door is still open, drawing a prism of saturated light, but backed into the wall, it’s completely black.

  “It gives me the right to keep you here,” he says, his breath soft against my forehead. Then his hands are closing around my wrists, lifting them above my head.

  My breath catches. “Stop.”

  “It gives me the right to touch you.”

  “No.”

  He places one of my wrists on top of the other, holding them both easily with one hand. His other hand lands on the curve of my hip—and it burns. I shut my eyes tight as if I can deny what’s happening that way. That only sharpens my other senses, the feel of him, the heat.

  “Clara,” he murmurs. “It gives me the right to kiss you.”

  My lips are trembling, and I can’t deny that I want it. And that I hate it, this wanting.

  He kissed me only once before, only minutes before I left. I was breathless, a mixture of young desire and fear. Part of me believed that my love for him would conquer what we faced. The other part of me knew that I would never see him again. It turns out that I was wrong on both counts.

  His lips are surprisingly soft and achingly sure. They touch mine with a deliberation that can only be possessive. He can take this much time because he owns me. Because I’m his to do whatever he wants with—and he wants my lips, over and over again. He presses his mouth over mine in a way that would almost be chaste if it weren’t for his hand on my hip or his hot length against my stomach.

  His tongue swipes across my lip, sending sparks through my body. I shiver, and he does it again.

  It feels like I’m on fire from the inside out, flames of need licking my body on the inside, the heat and pressure of him on the outside. And the worst part is how I want to give in, to let him scorch me. I would never be the same again. I would never recover, but God, how sweet the pain.

  Want and need war within me, and I let out a sigh. He uses the opportunity to slip inside my mouth, to spread me wider for his invasion. I imagine him saying, It gives me the right to use your mouth. I should hate him, but somehow it only makes me hotter.

  He explores my secret places with terrible patience. I’m the one straining for more, faster, deeper. His tongue slides against mine, a sensual swipe that makes me moan. On the next glide his body rocks into me—only once. Once is enough. Now I know how it will be when we’re together, his body moving against me, invading me, a rhythm I’ll never forget.

  My breasts feel heavier than they’ve ever been, the fabric constraining them too tight and harsh. The cami is thick around my breasts, but even so my nipples harden and press against the restraints. It might as well be lace holding me, whisper thin but textured. When Giovanni’s body shifts in front of me, the fabric of his suit rubs against them. My breath catches, and without meaning to, I roll my body, pressing my breasts into him.

  He groans into my mouth. “Christ, bella. What you do to me.”

  At least I’m not the only one breaking apart. I’m floating, flying. I’m breathing hard, but he is too. It’s like we’ve run a marathon instead of kissing for a moment. He’s too close, too large. Too sensual. I have no defenses against him, especially when his thumb slides under the hem of my cami, a lone and soft slide against my bare skin.

  A shudder racks my body. “Gio, I don’t know—I feel strange.”

  His laugh is unsteady. “You need to go.”

  “I…what?”

  He turns just enough to rest his palm on the wall beside my head. His other hand falls away from my hip. I feel the loss acutely, the air almost freezing in comparison to his touch. “You need to take your dog and leave this room.”

  My body aches for something only he can give me. I lean toward him instinctively, knowing he can assuage me. It actually hurts, these knots he’s tied inside.

  “Go,” he says roughly. “Unless you want me to fuck you on this rug right now. Leave.”

  The word fuck jars me out of whatever trance I’ve been in.

  Oh God, no. No no no. This is all wrong. Why did I let him touch me like that? Except that’s not the question I need to be asking. Why did I like it so much?

  And even fully aware, I still want him to touch me again.

  The only thing stopping me is the room. The rug. The office and all the things I’ve never told a living soul. I’m not about to start by telling my captor, even if
he does make my body yearn.

  It takes me longer than I want to coax the dog out from behind the globe. The entire time, Giovanni stands against the wall, silent and still. I wrap a shivering Lupo in my arms and hurry up the stairs, where Romero waits outside the door to lock me inside.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I think about the way his lips felt against mine—hot and sweet, sensual and somehow comforting. Sharp desire mixed with an ethereal relaxation. I could have stayed like that for hours, for days. I could have kissed him forever.

  Which is really messed up, all things considered.

  It’s also messed up that I regret not letting Maria help with my hair. What should it matter whether I’m pretty? I’m a prisoner here, no matter how good the food or how sexy my captor.

  Only with Amy’s help could I ever do anything fancy with my hair. It’s too thick and unruly, tied up in wavy knots no matter how recently I’ve brushed it. Princess hair, that’s what Honor called it. The kind Rapunzel let down from her window. I’m looking out my window now, but there’s no prince at the bottom.

  A knock comes at the door.

  I turn and pad across the room barefoot. It felt strange to wear heels alone in my room, but it feels stranger to open the door to Giovanni like this—intimate. The air in the room evaporates when I see him in his tux, so dignified and solemn. He’s dressed the opposite of when I knew him before, in well-washed jeans and plain T-shirts. Except he reminds me more of that boy in this moment than since I first woke up in that limo. He looks both expectant and resigned, as if he knows something bad will happen but he’s determined to withstand it. Back then I thought the horrible thing was his family or maybe mine. Now I’m not so sure what tests him. Maybe it’s me.

  His dark gaze lingers over my body. I saw myself in the mirror so I know what he sees. Ample curves wrapped in gold so formfitting it could have been painted onto me. It looks like the individual shimmering beads adorn my skin. It’s ridiculously sexy but, considering that most of my skin is covered, classy too. I feel like a complete stranger.

  His voice is stiff. “You look…beautiful.”

  I make a face. “You don’t have to say that.”

  He gives a rough laugh, a little unsteady. “Jesus, Clara.”

  “It’s not like this is a real date.”

  His amusement evaporates. “No, this isn’t a real date. This isn’t how I imagined taking you out when I let myself think about it.”

  My curiosity sparks despite myself. I don’t want to be interested in him, this ghost of the boy I loved, this imposter. “What did you imagine?”

  “A drive to some high spot where we could look at the city lights and be alone. We’d lie down on the hood of my car while it was still warm.” He gives me a small smile. “We’d talk about our plans, because when I thought about it, we had a future.”

  My chest constricts. That would have been paradise. There’s a part of me that wants to say, We can have a future now. Except kidnapping isn’t a real foundation for a relationship. And he’s a violent man, ruling a world I’ve wanted to escape my entire life.

  “That would have been nice,” I say instead.

  The gravity in his eyes tells me he understands the difference. It would have been nice before. Now we’re just a mafia capo and his stolen bride, preparing to attend our fake engagement party.

  He holds up a velvet box. “For you.”

  “Oh.” It’s stupid to feel grateful that he’s gotten me a present. Like the dress, it’s more about his status than doing something nice for me. Still, my heart pounds as I reach for the lid.

  A sapphire pendant takes my breath away, its many facets catching the faint light in the room and sparkling even brighter. The dainty gold chain emphasizes the weight of the gem.

  “I can’t,” I manage to say. It’s too much, too beautiful. Too expensive.

  He raises an eyebrow. “Why not?”

  “What if I lose it?”

  “Then it will have served its purpose.”

  I can’t breathe, watching him. Wanting him. “What purpose?”

  He takes my hand and leads me to the mirror. A woman I don’t recognize stares back at me. She does actually look beautiful—and confident and sensual. This is some dress. Giovanni stands behind me, his broad shoulders dwarfing mine, his eyes fathomless where they meet mine.

  His large hand sweeps my hair to the side, achingly gentle, exposing my neck.

  He holds the delicate strands of gold and rests the sapphire against my breastbone. It’s cool and heavy, glinting in the mirror. With quiet concentration he fastens the necklace behind me and smooths my hair back into place. The entire time, he doesn’t touch my skin. My senses heighten as if reaching for the feel of him, begging.

  By the time he’s finished, I’m breathing harder, making the stone rise and fall.

  “Beautiful,” he murmurs. “Whether it’s a real date or not, you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

  “Don’t,” I say, my voice thick with tears. I don’t want to soften toward him, but God, I already have. I could never really be hard toward him. He’s dragged me back into my worst nightmare and somehow made me want it.

  “This is all I imagined,” he continues, his voice harsh. “I bought this a week after I took over, because it reminded me of your eyes. I never thought I’d see it on you, but I wanted to. I want to dress you in diamonds and lace. I want to give you everything.”

  The sapphire hangs at the perfect height for a pendant, an inch above the top of my breasts. But somehow it feels constricting, like a collar. A leash. “Everything but my freedom.”

  “I can’t let you go, but I can make this good for you. Let me, bella.”

  Something inside me unfurls. The temptation is too strong, my love for him still burning too bright. As wrong as it is, I want him to soothe me, to make me want this cage.

  The look I give him is all the acquiescence he needs.

  With a low groan he presses his face into my hair. Gentle hands push it aside, baring my neck once again. His lips meet the angle of my jaw. He forges a trail down my neck, branding me with every soft kiss. But while his lips are soft, his hands on my hips are not. They hold me still as if he’s afraid I might bolt. His body is as hard as a brick wall behind me, unforgiving. A rock of his hips and I feel the column of his arousal.

  “I don’t want to take you downstairs,” he mutters. “Don’t want to share you with them.”

  Except those people are the reason he kidnapped me. Because of the blood that runs through my veins. Because of the birthright that feels more like a curse.

  Tension wraps around me, so tight I can’t help but speak. “Then let’s leave them, Gio. We can run away together, like we always dreamed about. Just you and me.”

  He pauses, his face pressed into my neck, and it feels like a refuge.

  Then he steps back, and the cool air between us might as well be a desert. “It’s not that simple,” he says, voice dark enough to ward off any more intimacy.

  * * *

  The party is in full swing by the time we reach the staircase, the foyer and parlor room packed with custom-made tuxes and designer gowns. Heads turn when we make our descent, watching us with blatant avarice. Giovanni’s arm is solid, steady, which is good because I’m clinging to him. He might be my kidnapper, but tonight he’s also my shield.

  “There you are,” exclaims a voice I haven’t heard in years. Both of us turn to greet the gray-haired matron, Ada, a force of nature in this social circle. Her hair shines the same silver as before, her eyes just as shrewd. “Haven’t you grown into a fine young woman.”

  I give her a real smile, if somewhat nervous. She was always nice to me, even knowing about my parentage. “Ada. So nice to see you again.”

  Her expression is knowing. “It’s good to have you back.”

  My mouth opens and then closes. I’m not prepared for faking it through all these people. And we’ll have to meet with all of them. Some I r
ecognize, some I don’t. And the entire time I’ll have to pretend I actually want to be here.

  Ada pulls me close, suffusing me with the fresh smell of gerberas. “Chin up, darling. The vultures only circle when you bleed.”

  I glance at Giovanni and see he’s watching me with an unreadable expression. He’s certainly not anywhere close to bleeding, his posture both confident and relaxed, as if he belongs here. And he does, if the glances of respect and jealousy are anything to judge by. He belongs here more than I ever did.

  “Thank you,” I whisper to Ada.

  She nods and turns away, leaving me to greet another old family friend.

  At least, that’s what I would have called them before. Now I know they’re hardly friends. They’re vultures; Ada was right about that. I lift my chin and meet their gazes, determined not to bleed.

  A hundred people later—or maybe only ten—I’m close to falling down. This is no different from the nights on Party Row. Oh, the jewels shine brighter here, but it’s the same. Posturing and smiling. Pretending and judging.

  No one dares to whisper about me when I’m nearby, not with Giovanni at my side.

  I know they’ll talk, though. I feel their looks burning into my back.

  “Dance with me,” Giovanni murmurs.

  He’s been an utter gentleman the entire night. He was always kind to me, but I never knew he had polite manners for such a formal social situation. Actually, he probably didn’t. He must have learned them since ascending to his title. And I don’t want to imagine another woman on his arm while he did.

  “All right,” I say because anything that will take me out of the spotlight sounds good.

  Except that the small crowd of dancers part when we step into the ballroom.

  Giovanni turns back and holds out his hand.

  It feels momentous somehow, as if he’s offering more than just a dance. Although what, I can’t imagine. Certainly not a real life together. Not love. This entire thing is a charade, the same way it was with Shane. He may as well be groping me at a cocktail table while someone brings around test-tube shots.