Page 30 of Wicked Mafia Beast
My pulse stutters. My mouth goes dry.
Note to self: Stop. Smelling. The jacket.
He stops in front of a door and pushes it open, stepping aside to let me enter.
The room is nice. More than nice, actually. A queen bed dominates the back wall, draped in charcoal linens that look thick and soft and impossibly inviting after days of concretefloors and metal cages. Through a half-open door I can see a private bathroom, all white tile and gleaming fixtures that probably cost more than my first apartment. And then there's the closet, doors standing open to reveal clothes hanging in neat rows like they've been waiting for me.
I move toward the closet on autopilot, journalist brain cataloging the contents. Jeans. Soft sweaters. T-shirts. Leggings. Underwear still in packages, the tags showing sizes that look almost right. Everything in dark colors, practical fabrics, nothing flashy or revealing.
Someone put thought into this. Someone who was paying attention to details that most men wouldn't notice.
"Who picked these out?" I ask without turning around.
There’s a long pause that makes me look over my shoulder to see if he’s still there.
Kon stands in the doorway, his massive frame filling the space, his expression unreadable.
"I did."
He picked out my clothes? Which means he anticipated buying me. I file that away to think on once I’m alone.
I turn back to the closet and pretend to examine a sweater, using the moment to school my expression into something that doesn't betray the confusion churning through my chest.
I glance around the room, taking stock. "No restraints. No locks. No armed guard outside the door." I keep my voice flat, casual, even though my heart is trying to beat its way out of my ribcage. "So what's the catch?" I raise my wrist and rub at the markingleft from the last set of cuffs put on me by the bastards back at the auction. “Not that I miss them, mind you.”
Kon’s gaze drops to my hands and I swear I see anger flicker across his handsome expression before his eyes turn blank again.
"The building is secured. You can't leave without my authorization. But inside these walls, you're free to move around as you please."
I let out a humorless laugh. "So it's a big cage instead of a small one."
Behind me, I hear his jaw tighten. Not a sound exactly, but a shift in the air. A change in pressure that raises the hair on the back of my neck.
There it is. A nerve. Good to know where the soft spots are.
"Get some sleep. Tomorrow we talk about your family."
He turns to leave. Every rational brain cell I have is screaming at me to let him go, to use this moment alone to regroup, to plan, to figure out my next move like someone with actual survival instincts.
Instead, my brain has other ideas and my mouth follows. "Don't I get a tour? Or do you just put all your purchases in storage and forget about them?"
He stops. Turns. Those black eyes fix on me, and I feel the weight of his attention like a physical thing pressing against my skin.
"You want a tour?"
"I want to know the dimensions of my cage, yeah." I lift my chin and meet his stare head-on. "Call it professional curiosity."
"Professional?"
"I'm a journalist." I hold my ground even though every instinct screams at me to look away. "I investigate the powerful and corrupt and morally bankrupt. You hit the trifecta the moment you raised that paddle." I see no reason to hide who I am and what I intend to do the second I have access to paper and a pen.
“I’ve mentally already started my piece. My opening line:The man they call the Beast has surprisingly good taste in literature, questionable taste in home décor, and absolutely no qualms about buying human beings on a Saturday night.”
His expression flickers. Amusement? Irritation? Both? I can't tell, and that bothers me more than I want to admit.
He stalks forward until I’m bowing over the edge of the bed, his nose touching mine.
My chin nearly hits my chest. I hold my ground and fold my arms tight. Hard black meets furious blue.
