Page 17 of Willing Captive
One second I’m standing there, and the next I’m scooped into Mattia’s arms and moved out of the way. The painting comes tumbling down, and my stomach drops.
“That’s not my fault,” I tell him in shock. “TVs go above fireplaces, so I assumed this was a trick photo or something. How can I be blamed for this?”
I’ve been framed… in more ways than one.
“You’re going to be a handful.”
“Two,” I correct, wiggling in his arms to prove my point. He puts me back on my feet, and I see that the canvas has been punctured. I sheepishly peek over at him. “That wasn’t expensive, right?”
“You’re worth more.”
“I know that’s right.” Oh my god, I’m trying to downplay his comments because it gives me all the girly feels. “But really, was it expensive?” I ask again, feeling a tiny bit guilty if it is.
“It’s fine,” he says and waves it off.
“Thank goodness.” I puff out a breath. “Besides, it was ugly. I did you a favor.”
“I appreciate that, but Andy Warhol might not.”
I don’t have a clue who that is, but I’m pretty sure he failed art class.
“Now you can get a TV like a normal person.”
“I don’t believe either of us is normal.”
“Fair point.” I nod, giving the room a final inspection. “This will do, I suppose.”
“Good, it was your only option.” He undoes the top few buttons of his shirt and then rolls up his sleeves. Holy hell, even his forearms are sexy. The veins in them stand out when he flexes.
“Is this your room?” The bathroom makes me believe that, but the room is empty of personal items.
“Our room.”
“That works for me. I need a bodyguard. My name must be getting out there. Why else would someone have tried to steal me today? I’m a threat, and they know it.”
“You’re not wrong.” He gives me one of his deadly smirks that does things to my body.
“I know, I never am.”
“Come on, sweetheart, I’ll feed you and then we’ll unpack your things.”
“I don’t cook,” I let him know. “I mean, I can, but it doesn’t always turn out well.”
“I think for our safety and the house’s, we keep it that way.” He takes my hand, leading me back downstairs.
“This place really is impressive,” I admit when we get to the kitchen. I run my hand along the marble counters. “I’m scared to touch anything.”
“I find that hard to believe,” he says as I lift the lid to a jar and peek inside.
“What?” I reach inside and grab the cookie that distracted me. I cringe when I drop the lid back down too hard, and the glass clicks loudly. I hate the sound of glass on glass.
“Nothing,” he says with a chuckle.
“These are good.” I take a bite and then brush off the crumbles that fall onto my chest.
“I can’t take the credit. Bea comes and stocks my things once a week in case I come home.”
That gives me pause, and I feel a rush of jealousy that has me regretting not bringing my mace with me. I remind myself that there’s a gun in the nightstand, but I’ve never used one before. It can’t be too hard, right? Dumbasses run around with them all the time.
