Page 4 of Freed
When I finally look up, crumbs still clinging to my fingers and relief settling sluggishly into my bones, she’s still there—arms crossed, fear carved deep into the lines of her face. I can’t tell if she’s afraidofme orforme. That’s the million-dollar question.
“Thank you,” I say softly.
She hums under her breath and moves to the fridge. I watch as she begins preparing something that smells incredible, rich and savory, but I get the sense it isn’t meant for me. That suspicion is confirmed when a bell chimes somewhere beyond the kitchen and a deep voice calls out—low, rapid, unmistakably male.
She answers without turning around.
Then boots hit the floor. The sound alone makes my spine stiffen. A tall man steps into the kitchen, filling the doorway like he belongs there, like the space reshapes itself around him. The first thing that hits me is howbeautifulhe is. That’s the only word that fits.
He’s tall, about Lorenzo’s height, but where Lorenzo is lean and sharp, this man is solid. Massive in the way of someone built from years of physical work rather than intention. Broad shoulders stretch the fabric of his sweater. His chest is thick, his arms heavy with muscle, forearms corded and strong even at rest.
His hair is dark, worn slightly long on top, with a loose curl that falls forward like it refuses to be tamed. A well-kept beard frames his mouth and jaw, softening what would otherwise be an intimidating face, but not by much. His eyes are light, startlingly so against the darker planes of his face, and they land on me with immediate awareness. Not surprise. Not curiosity. Assessment.
He doesn’t speak right away. Just stands there, steady and unmovable, like a man who’s used to being the final word in anyroom he enters. I don’t know who he is yet. But I know that everything just changed.
“So you’re the little thief who scared my favorite aunt nearly to death.”
His voice is deep and accented, smooth but edged with steel, and it sends a shiver straight down my spine.
“I’m not a thief,” I say quickly, forcing the words past the knot in my throat. “And I’m sorry I scared her. I’m scared too. Like I tried to tell her, I don’t know how I got here—or where I even am.”
He studies me in silence.
“An unbelievable story,” he says at last. “But I’ve heard stranger. Let’s start with your name.”
“Birdie,” I answer. “Birdie Miller. I’m from Kansas City, Missouri.”
A corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. More like interest.
“Well,” he says, “you’re a long way from Missouri, Miss Miller.”
The words hit harder than they should.
“Don’t call me that,” I snap before I can stop myself.
One dark brow lifts. “Apologies.”
I drag in a shaky breath. “No. I should apologize. I’m just—” My voice wobbles. “I’m really stressed right now, and someone I cared about used to call me that and?—”
“Breathe, Birdie.”
The command lands like a hand on my sternum. My lungs obey before my brain catches up. I inhale. Then exhale.
His gaze doesn’t soften, but something in it steadies, like he’s decided I’m not a threat.
“Sorry,” I say again, because I don’t know what else to do with the knot in my chest.
“Do you know how you got here?”
I shake my head. “I remember waking up, and I was blindfolded. When I made a sound, they pushed something into my neck.” My fingers curl in my lap as the memory resurfaces, jagged and incomplete. “The next time I woke up, I was here.” I hesitate, then ask the question that’s been clawing at me since I scraped paint off that window. “Do… do you know why I’m here?”
“I’m starting to get an idea,” he says slowly. “And it’s not good for either of us.”
My stomach drops. “How so?”
“You’re Lorenzo Conti’s mistress, aren’t you?”
I flinch. “I’m not a mistress.”
