7

THALIA POV

 

Before I can move to climb down, he strides toward me. Three seconds. That’s all the warning I get before he’s in front of me again, cigarette smoke curling between us like a threat as his hand wraps around my throat.

Firm enough to hold me in place, not enough to cut off air.

“Is that why you have a Colt Mustang strapped around your knee?”

His voice lays something heavy on my throat.

 

“Tha…lia.” My name drags out like he’s standing on the edge of a cliff

 

“It’s for self-protection.”

I gaze away from him, but his grip turns me back to face him.

Empty silence heightens the awareness of us together. His eyes search me: from my eyes to my lips, then down my seated body before hovering on my lips again.

 

He opens his mouth to say something but closes it again, puffing his cigarette before letting go of my throat.

 

My feet hit the floor and I walk past him, feeling his gaze glued to my back like a physical touch.

 

The silence stretches: thick, electric.

Four steps to fresh air, I hear the soft click of his cigarette being stubbed out.

 

Then footsteps. Fast. Deliberate.

My head snaps back. Pain shoots across my scalp as he fists my hair and yanks me flush against his shoulder.

I gasp, hands flying up to grab his wrist. The position forces my back to arch, my throat to expose, my body to curve into his: vulnerable, pinned, every inch of me aware of his hard muscles. Of him pressing against me.

Out of instinct, I twist his finger. He winces but doesn’t let go.

 

I should fight harder: Heel to his toes. Elbow to his ribs. Move.

But I don’t.

 

Because when he tightens his grip, his scent: fruit, oud and incense floods me again, the same one that’s been clinging to his shirt all day, wrapping around me like smoke.

“Does your husband know you’re in my apartment?” His other hand slides to my lower back, fingertips teasing just above my waistband, igniting unwanted currents through me.

 

I hate it. Hate that my body responds to the same hands that...

“Wearing my clothes, smelling like me, about to get your life to revolve around me?” His nails dig in further.

 

A startled rush of air slips from me.

I elbow him in the side, but he just presses tighter.

 

“Careful.”

That’s all he says as he holds my hand hostage, pulling me closer to his chest. My traitorous nipples harden beneath his shirt as I lean into his touch.

𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘚𝘪𝘊𝘬. 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘚 𝘪𝘚 𝘚𝘪𝘊𝘬.

 

“Does he, pretty doll?” He rumbles low into my ear. The sound is a feathering touch to my nerves, enough to make me clench my stomach and core together.

“You have my phone. I’m not doing this job, and I don’t answer to any man.”

Despite my words, I close my eyes and breathe him in when he pulls me closer.

 

“You must not know me if you think you can enter my house, disobey me, then waltz out on your own accord.”

The deepness of his voice and the authority take hold of me. Like a wax when lit.

Before I can speak, he lets me go.

The absence of his touch feels like cold water. I should be relieved, I AM relieved but my skin still burns where his hands were. My scalp tingles from where he pulled my hair. My throat remembers the pressure of his fingers.

I’m standing here in his apartment, surrounded by him, wanting him, and I can’t remember the last time I hated myself this much.

My hands are shaking so bad I curl them into fists before he can see.

I need air. Time away from him. Before I forget why I’m here.

 

“We’re going to the warehouse,” he says, tossing car keys at me.

I catch them midair out of muscle memory.

Warehouse? Great!

Carlos eyes me, and I control the smile that’s trying to surface.

“I can’t wear your clothes in front of your men!”

But he’s already out the door.

 

Good. Perfect time to establish boundaries.

I head to the kitchen.

Nothing except cereal and milk.

I grab both with a bowl as I head into the living room.

The apartment unsettles me. The layout matches mine too closely to be coincidence. Same lilac wall paint, same structure, but I push the thought aside.

𝘈𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯

If I don't. If by chance...

I shake my head, settle on the sofa and eat slowly, deliberately.

The TV won’t turn on. Probably controlled by his system.

Everything here is controlled by him. Except me. Perfect prescription for the control freak

The door slams open like he heard his praise.

I don’t look up. Just take another bite of cereal, letting the crunch fill the silence between us.

Seven steps and he’s in front of me.

I raise the spoon to my mouth, he snatches the bowl and hurls it at the wall. Ceramic shatters. Milk drips down the wallpaper.

Before I can rebuke, I’m upside down over his shoulder, his arm an iron bar across the back of my thighs.

 

“I’m not your fucking puppy!” I thrash against his grip, but it’s like fighting stone.

He doesn’t answer. Just carries me outside into cold air and dumps me into the driver’s seat of his car.

“Drive.”

The rumble of his voice and darkness of his eyes should make me obedient, but as I said, I’m no puppy.

“No can do. If I needed to be controlled, I’d have come with a leash.”

The venom in my words bypasses him. He looks amused instead of disrespected.

 

“Your husband didn’t get you a leash?”

I roll my eyes.

“Our sex life is no business of yours.”

My words come out as harsh as intended.

Something cold replaces the darkness that marred his eyes earlier. They stay glued on me, searching, calculating.

Whatever he sees takes him out of the car and over to my side.

 

“You can go home.” He orders as he opens my car door.

Confusion creases my forehead.

“You can go meet your husband.” He takes the keys from me, lifts me out, then drives off.

I stand there, confused and cold. Facing “my apartment.” Surrounded by empty road and trees.

The more I look at it, the more it resembles my building. Not just the size, but the architecture.

I look around. No building. No neighbor.

Empty. No car or their track.

 

HOW DOES HE EXPECT ME TO GET HOME

I walk to the back of the house. A large gate separates me from his penthouse. Luxurious, sleek, proof of wealth.

He really lives in a comfortable apartment, and that stings. He should be burning, buried with my family, miserable.

The need to crash through his glass surges up, but I calm myself. He has cameras that will capture me, and the glass is highly likely reinforced, unbreakable.

Instead, I do something else.

I pluck a few flowers from the mini garden and squeeze their juice onto each CCTV lens.

 

Minutes later, happy with myself, the sun is already a burning glow. I take a few steps outside his premises, and to my surprise a van arrives.

Two men and a woman step out.

“Good morning, ma’am.”

I scan their faces, then the van’s name. The clothes.

“Are you Miss Thalia?” one guy asks.

“Yes, I am. You’re here with my clothes, right?”

All three beam.

“You’ll deliver them somewhere else, but drop me at the bus stop first.”

They look wary. As they should be.

“From Carlos for Thalia. His PA?”

They bite their lips, and one of the men takes in my outfit.

“Or should I say his wife?”

The woman’s eyes widen. The men gulp.

Wife. I should correct them. Should make it clear I’m just an employee, barely even that. But something stops me. Let the rumor spread. Let Carlos hear it from his own people. Let him deal with the mess of assumptions. After all, he gave me his clothes

“Let’s go.” They oblige.

En route, I book a ride home.

Two gifts: free clothes and time off.

I feel great.