Denial (Careless Whispers #1)(39)

My stomach interrupts my one-on-one chat with myself with a groan of demand. I push off the door and round the bed to note the time from the clock by the bed—five o’clock—unable to remember the last time I ate. I find the fridge Kayden mentioned and go to my knees in front of it, discovering it to be quite well-stocked as promised. I grab a mini chocolate milk and an apple, and sit Indian-style to begin eating, but I’m only a few bites in when my mind flickers with the image of me tied to that damn bed.

I down the milk and put the rest of the apple back in the fridge before standing and removing my purse to set it on the marble-topped nightstand. That’s when I spot the pink leather journal lying in the center of the bed, along with a pen. The bed is so high I have to go up on my toes to climb on top, and once I’m there I grab the journal and pen. Settling on my back, I open the first page, and to my surprise there’s writing:

You will remember. That’s an order.

—Kayden

I laugh, as I am certain is intended, surprised he has managed such a feat when he’s not even here. Shutting the journal, I hug it to me, staring at the ceiling the way I did when I woke up in that hospital and rolled over to stare into his pale blue eyes. Beautiful eyes. And my eyes drift shut, my lips curved. I drift into a state of half awake and half asleep, but my mind will not allow me this brief time of peace, and I am no longer smiling. I am transported back to his room, naked and tied to the bed.

Two hours I have been like this. My hands over my head, knotted together. Cold. Angry. Scared. I am being punished for going shopping when he told me to stay home. I thought he was a Prince Charming, my Prince Charming, a man I could fall in love with. But no Prince Charming does this to a person. I just want off this bed and to go home. I should have gone weeks ago to replace my stolen passport. Why didn’t I replace my passport? Oh yeah. I was living a fantasy. A rich, sexy, and powerful man consumed me until I couldn’t process anything else. That’s time number two I’ve been foolish over a man. I just have to go to the passport office tomorrow and get a new one. I want to call Sara, but she’ll worry and try to rescue me, and she can’t. Not from San Francisco. All I will do is cause her to stress. I’ll call her when I’m headed home.

Abruptly, the doors open, and I jerk my head upward to find him standing in the doorway, tall and broad, his suit so damn expensive and perfect, like he once was to me, but not now. Not ever again. He walks toward me, personifying male elegance and grace, but radiating pure predator. Funny how that appealed to me before, even made him sexy, but all it does on this night is convince me I’m his prey, not his “angel,” as he calls me.

He stops at the end of the bed, shrugging out of his jacket before walking to a chair, where he neatly folds it and lays it down. Precise. Always precise. And controlled. Everything is about control with him. Everything. He stands with his back to me, but I can see him loosening his tie, taking his time to fold it as well. Each second creeps by like years, building the anticipation, the anger. The fear. He continues with this process until he is naked, and then he walks to the chest against the wall, where he removes his watch, carefully laying it inside what I know to be a velvet-lined drawer.

Finally, he faces the bed, closing in on me, his body as perfect as his suit, his cock jutted forward. I look away, refusing to be seduced by a man who is obviously a chameleon who has only now shown his true colors. My gaze might have left the man, but it lands on the statue of a tiger in the corner, so a part of him. He says it’s about power, control, and a willingness to do anything to defeat his enemies. I was wrong. He’s no chameleon. He’s a pure predator.

The bed shifts and his hands come down on my knees, and before I realize what is happening, he’s pressing them to my chest. His fingers dig into my legs and he moves closer, leaning over me. And damn it, I am looking at him when I swore I would not. “You’re angry,” he says.

“Two hours,” I say. “Two hours you left me here.”

“I told you not to leave the house.”

“You don’t own me. You can’t tell me—”

“I can and I will. And I left you here to make sure you think twice the next time you disobey me. A painless punishment, considering how disobeying me might have ended. I am a powerful man, angel. You know this. My enemies will lash out at anyone I care for. And that’s you. So if I tell you to f*cking stay in the house, I f*cking mean it. Understand?”

His demand is guttural, the rasp in his tone telling me he truly feared for me. “Yes,” I say, realizing now that I really was in danger today, because he isn’t the only one who will do anything to win in life. So will his enemies.

He stares at me for several seconds, assessing my reply, weighing it before his voice softens. “Good girl.” He lowers my legs and slides between them. “There is always a price for power, but losing you will not be mine. I protect what is mine.” He leans into me, his cheek pressed to mine, his lips at my ear, to add, “And you are mine.”

I jerk to a sitting position and look down to discover the journal still clasped to my chest. Scanning the bed, I locate the pen and open the journal, trying to document everything I just remembered, along with the stupid certainty that I forgave him that night. I search my mind, looking for more details, trying to see his face, or identify a clue that tells me he’s Niccolo. Five pages later, I’ve discovered nothing new about myself or him.