Chapter Twenty-Seven: Testing Limitations

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Testing Limitations

Cecilia POV

The door clicked shut behind him, the heavy thud echoing like a gavel striking a sounding block. I stood there for a full minute, staring at the wood grain, waiting for him to burst back in and tell me it was all some twisted joke.

He didn't.

The silence of the penthouse settled around me, heavy and expensive. I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding and looked around the room that was apparently my prison cell for the foreseeable future.

Master Suite.

It was ridiculous. The bed was big enough to host a small orgy, the sheets were silk that probably cost more than my car, and the bathroom looked like a spa you’d see on a reality TV show for housewives who hated their husbands. But the door had no lock on the inside. And the windows? I walked over to the heavy drapes and yanked them back.

Glass. Floor-to-ceiling glass. The Vegas Strip glittered below me, a neon artery pumping light into the desert night. It was beautiful. It was also thirty floors up. I shivered. I never enjoyed heights.

I pressed my hand against the pane. It was cold, thick. Bulletproof, he’d said. So even if I found a way to break the glass, I’d just plummet to my death looking at the Bellagio fountains. Fantastic.

"Okay, Cecilia," I whispered to my reflection. "You're not dead. You're just... inconvenienced."

I turned back to the room. My stomach was full, my body was sore, but my brain was buzzing. I wasn't the type to just curl up and cry. I was a Henderson. We didn't break. We got even.

I walked over to the closet he’d pointed out and yanked the doors open. Rows of clothes hung there. Ryker, whoever that was, had come through. I grabbed a simple black tee and a pair of jeans, ignoring the lacy scraps of lingerie that had been tucked into the drawers. I wasn't here to impress him.

I shimmied out of the oversized shirt and panties, hissing as the fabric dragged over the angry red welts on my ribs and stomach. I glanced down in the mirror; the white bandages Harlan had applied were spotted with tiny dots of fresh blood where the movement had pulled the scabs. Great. Just another thing to worry about. I pulled on the jeans and the tee, the rough denim comforting against my skin. I felt human again. Armed.

I walked out into the hallway, the marble cool against my bare feet. I was no longer naked in a strange man's house; I was a prisoner in jeans. It was an improvement.

Zacian.

The name alone used to make me blush, thinking of the distant, handsome man at the gala. Or the distant friend my father had been proud of. Now, it made my blood boil. He thought he could just lock me up? Throw rules at me like I was one of his soldiers? Rule number three: You do exactly what I tell you.

Yeah, right.

I walked past the kitchen. Empty. Past the living area. Empty. I stopped in front of the double doors he’d pointed to earlier.

My office. Off limits.

I stared at the keypad. It was glowing faintly red. I reached out, tempted to press a button, just to see what happened. Alarms? Tasers? But I pulled my hand back. I wasn't stupid. I needed to know what I was dealing with before I started poking the bear.

I moved to the next door. Library.

I pushed it open and stepped inside. Oh. Wow.

I was drooling. It wasn't just a room with books. It was a sanctuary. Floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with hardcovers, a rolling ladder, a massive fireplace that looked like it hadn't been used in decades. The scent of old paper and leather hit me, comforting and familiar.

I ran my finger along the spines. ‘The Art of War’, ‘Sun Tzu’. ‘Histories of the Roman Empire’. Biographies of kings and conquerors. Heavy stuff. Interspersed with them were fiction classics. Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Dumas.

"Intellectual," I muttered. "Great."

I wished there were more books on other topics, like math or anatomy and physiology. Then again, I hadn’t explored the whole place. It might have them. Somewhere. I spotted a section on economics and business. I pulled one out, flipping through it. It was filled with charts and graphs about logistics, shipping routes, and import tariffs. Boring, but maybe useful. If I was going to be stuck here, I was going to learn how his mind worked. If he was a businessman, I’d learn to speak his language.

I moved to the Gym next. It was sleek, filled with top-of-the-line equipment. Free weights, treadmills, a boxing ring in the corner.

I eyed the punching bag. It looked like a good way to take out my frustration. I noted that for later. It would be useful, I just knew it. I was already itching to punch the guy.

I spent the next hour wandering, testing the boundaries. I checked the balcony doors. All locked. I checked the windows. Perfectly sealed. Then I checked the phone on the nightstand.

I picked it up. The screen lit up. No Signal.

Of course. He wasn't an amateur.

I flopped onto the couch in the living room, tucking my legs under me. The sun was beginning to set, painting the sky in hues of purple and orange. It was beautiful, but the beauty felt mocking.

I was trapped in a glass box with a man who looked like a Greek god and acted like a prison warden.

The sound of a door opening broke my thoughts. Zacian walked out of the office. He had changed. Now he was wearing a grey button-down with the sleeves rolled up, revealing those forearms that were roped with muscle and ink. He looked dangerous. But he also looked tired.

He stopped when he saw me on the couch, his eyes narrowing as they swept over the jeans and fitted tee I’d found in the closet. "I thought I told you to get cleaned up," he said, his voice that same low rumble that vibrated through my bones.

"I did clean up," I shot back, gesturing to my clothes. "Then I got bored. So, I explored. You have a lot of books on war, Zacian. Trying to compensate for something?"

I smirked, hoping he caught my subtle dig. If he was going to treat me like a child, I could act like a brat.

His lips twitched. It wasn't a smile, but it wasn't a scowl either. "War is a constant part of history, Cecilia. You'd do well to read some of it. Might help you understand why you're here."

"I understand why I'm here," I shot back, sitting up straighter. "My dad supposedly owes bad people money. You swooped in to save the day. And now you're holding me for ransom. Am I close?"

He walked over to the bar, not the kitchen. The bar. He poured a glass of amber liquid from a crystal decanter. The clink of the ice was the only sound in the room.

"Ransom implies I want money," he said, turning to face me. "I don't need your father's money. I need him to make a move. And until he does, you stay here."

"A move?" I repeated, brow furrowing. "What kind of move? You make it sound like he's playing a game of chess. He's just a businessman, Zacian. He doesn't 'make moves' on people like you."

He turned away, dismissing my confusion. The bastard may as well have been ignoring me! "It's complicated, Cecilia. Just worry about keeping yourself entertained. I've got enough on my plate without explaining politics to a nineteen-year-old."

He took a sip then, his eyes locking on mine over the rim of the glass. "And you're testing my patience. I can see it in your eyes. You're looking for cracks in the armor."

"Is there armor?" I pressed, tilting my head. "Or are you just this much of a control freak naturally?"

He set the glass down with a sharp *clack*.

"Careful," he said softly. "I gave you a rule about defiance. Don't make me remind you."

The threat hung in the air, but I didn't back down. I couldn't. If I backed down now, I’d never stop.

"So, what now?" I asked, gesturing around the room. "We just sit here? Stare at each other until my dad decides to play ball?"

"I have work to do," he said. "You have... books. A gym. A TV. Entertain yourself. Just stay away from the office door."

He turned to go back into the office, but I spoke up again.

"Can I at least have my phone? The real one? I need to call my brother. He’s still MIA and I’ve been worried sick."

Zacian paused, his hand on the doorknob. He didn't turn around.

"Treyvan is fine," he said, his back to me. "He's with your father. They're laying low."

"How do you know?" I pressed. "Have you talked to him? Or are you just guessing?"

He turned then, his expression cold. "I know everything that happens in this city, Cecilia. Treyvan is safe. For now."

"‘For now’?" I stood up, the blanket falling to the floor. "What does that mean?"

"It means," he said, stepping toward me, closing the distance until I had to crane my neck to look at him. I had a feeling I would be doing that a lot. "That as long as your father keeps his head down, everyone stays safe. But if he does something stupid... if he tries to be a hero... people get hurt."

My breath hitched. "You'd hurt him? My own brother?"

"I'm not the one you should be worried about," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "It's the people holding his leash. Piper and Alex. They don't care about family. They care about results."

He reached out, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear. His fingers were rough, callused, but the touch was surprisingly gentle. It made my heart race in a way I hated.

"Go read a book, Cecilia. Let me handle the rest."

He turned and walked back into the office, the door clicking shut behind him.

I stood there for a long time, my hand going to the spot where he’d touched me. I was glaring, my mouth open at the indignation of it all. Yet, my skin was tingling. I was angry, terrified, and confused all at once.

Finally I huffed and shook my head. I guess reading was better than nothing. I grabbed a book from the coffee table. ‘The Prince’ by Machiavelli. Fitting.

I curled up on the couch, forcing myself to read. But the words swam in front of my eyes. All I could think about was Treyvan. Was he really safe? Or was Zacian just saying that to keep me compliant?