He prepared for this.
Of course I know he did. The way he had Lupo transported here ahead of us proves that much. As do the toiletries in the bathroom. He was watching me, stalking me.
He protected me too.
I rest my head on the pillow, gaze trained on the locked door. Waiting for his return, dreading it—wanting it. Lupo stays under the bed, in much the same position, I’m guessing.
How is it possible I can sleep this way? In a place I thought I’d never come back to, held captive by a man I thought was dead? Maybe the drugs are still in my system, because the room narrows and then goes black.
When I open my eyes my stomach growls with hunger.
Or maybe that’s the sound of Lupo growling.
I sit up in bed just as a lock turns in the door. I’m wearing a nightgown with a scoop neck and cap sleeves—modest enough, but I still hold the pink sheet up to my chest as the door swings open.
It’s not Giovanni.
That knowledge sets off a firestorm inside me, relief an inky fuel, anger a lit match. I don’t really want to see him or his cold eyes. I don’t want to find out all the horrible ways he’s changed. But I don’t really want him to ignore me either.
And I’m cold. So incredibly cold in these old clothes and old blankets. I still remember the heat of his gaze, the hot brand of his fingers around my wrist.
If he’s going to hold me captive, the least he can do is hold me.
The man who enters the room has dirty blonde hair and a sharp suit. The effect is ruined by a blue dog leash in his hand. “Where’s the mutt?” he says, clearly annoyed to be assigned this task.
Romero. I think that’s his name. I was never really invited to the parties where I might have learned their ranks, the way my sister, Honor, was. Supposedly it was because I was younger, but everyone knew the real reason. Because I wasn’t really blood.
I hold my hand out. “I can walk him.”
His eyes are pale and almost dead. “Put the dog on the leash if you want him to go outside. Either that or he can piss in your room.”
I’m not willing to test that theory, so I hop out of bed and grab the leash. Lupo rumbles as I reach for him under the bed. I’ve never forced myself that near to him, so I’m half expecting him to bite me. Instead he freezes as soon as my hand touches his wiry fur.
“That’s right,” I croon softly. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
I snap the blue leash to a matching blue collar nestled in his fur. That means someone else has gotten close to him. They must have in order to get him here. I hope they didn’t hurt him. For that matter, I hope he didn’t hurt anyone else. Even if they might have deserved it. I don’t know how far Giovanni’s leniency will go.
“Be a good dog,” I whisper as I tug him out from under the bed.
He yanks his head against the collar as if testing how far he can go. His eyes are suspicious when I hand the lead over to Romero.
“He’s nervous,” I say, hoping he won’t push the dog too far and too fast.
Romero gives me a hard look and turns, yanking on the leash. I hold my breath because the last thing I need is a made man losing his temper on a stray dog. Giovanni may have me under his protection right now, but I doubt that extends to my dog.
Lupo follows the man outside, body sunk low, tail between his legs.
Only then can I breathe out a sigh of relief. And inhale the scent of bacon.
A young woman enters the room and closes the door with her hip. She’s carrying a tray laden with plates of eggs and toast and fruit. There’s a small silver pot that must have coffee.
She sets the tray down on the small round table. There are two antique white chairs around it, but I doubt she’s planning on staying. I’ve never seen her before, but I can’t waste this opportunity.
“What’s your name?”
She doesn’t look up from where she’s setting out silverware.
“Please,” I say, approaching her. “I’m being held against my will.”
She pours a cup of steaming coffee. “Cream?”
There’s a faint accent in her voice, but I can’t place it. “Please help me.”
She pauses, and I feel her distress vibrate in the air. At least she’s considering it. “I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Does it matter?” She stands back. “Eat now. I have until he returns with the dog to take the tray.”
“At least sit with me.”
Her lips purse. She doesn’t want to, but there’s not really anywhere else to sit. “It’s not right.”
“None of this is right. He drugged me. He—”
“Mr. Costas is a good man.”