Not even in the face of those sexy blue eyes.
I’m done with this shit. I’m done with all of it. There’s nothing for me here anymore. I need to get out now, while I still have a shot at a normal, decent life.
Fuck Yannis Rokiades.
Fuck Drago Lombardi.
Fuck Kian O’Sullivan.
There’s only one name that matters anymore.
And that’s mine. Renata Lombardi.
“Kian,” I say, raising my eyes to his, “I don’t have any information for you. And I’m not interested in staking any claim to the empire my father left behind. I just want my freedom.”
He knows exactly what I’m asking for, but he makes me say it anyway. Those eyes urge me. Go on, then, they say. Beg me for it.
I hate him for making me say it. For making me walk through every step of this corrupt dance. But those eyes flash and I know there’s no way around it.
“Just let me go,” I whisper. “Please.”
His answer is an immediate crack of the whip. “No.”
“I’ll disappear,” I press. “I’ll never come back to New York City. I’ll change my name if I have to. You can tell the world you murdered me. I’ll stay dead for you.”
He’s quiet for a long time. As though he’s genuinely considering the suggestion. But when he looks at me again, I realize he’s not even remotely entertaining it.
“You’re weak, Renata,” he says. His lips curl around my name and I feel a strange warmth spread through my legs at the sound of it. Like he’s tasting me. “You’ve been shot. You need time to heal.”
“I’ll heal somewhere else.”
“I’m afraid I can’t allow that.”
“Why the fuck not?”
He doesn’t speak, but I can see the answer in his eyes.
“You still think I might come in handy, don’t you?” I guess. “I’m nothing more than a bargaining chip to you.”
“You will be protected as long as you’re under my roof.”
“And who’s going to protect me from you?” I demand.
He takes a step closer. His eyes travel over my face. There’s conflict in them, a kind of personal war he seems to be waging with himself.
Maybe I’m not the only one with inner demons that won’t go back into their cages. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised—a man like Kian O’Sullivan can’t have lived the kind of life he’s lived without collecting a few devils of his own.
“For the time being, this is your home.”
I find it ironic and insulting that he would even use that word. “Fuck you,” I glower at him. “You can’t do this.”
He turns and walks towards the door. “I won’t be used anymore!” I scream. “I’m not a fucking… fucking… thing.”
“Someone will be up here soon with your dinner,” he tells me quietly. “You’ll need to eat to gain your strength.”
“Don’t bother,” I yell at his back. “I’m not eating as long as I’m your captive!”
He doesn’t respond.
“Do you hear me? I’m not eating a thing you give me!”
He turns around just long enough to give me an uncaring shrug and a frigid glare. “Your choice,” he says.
Then he’s gone.