His Quiet Addiction

CHAPTER 5— Boundaries and Bruises

ELENA

Ten minutes into the car ride, I was starting to think maybe being kidnapped wasn't the worst thing that could happen tonight.

Then we got shot at.

Again.

The first bullet shattered what was left of the rear window, and I screamed so loud I'm pretty sure dogs in the next city heard me. Glass rained down like the world's most dangerous confetti, and I threw myself onto the floor of the SUV, arms over my head, praying to every saint I could remember.

"Stay down!" The man barked, but honestly, where did he think I was going to go? Out the window?

More gunshots. The SUV swerved violently, throwing me against the seat. I heard the man and the one he called Luca shouting, the sharp crack of return fire, and the screech of tires that suggested we were either escaping or about to die in a fiery crash.

I was betting on the second option.

"Are we going to die?" I yelled over the noise.

"No," the man said, infuriatingly calm.

"You don't sound sure!"

"I'm sure."

Another bullet hit somewhere. I didn't know where. I didn't want to know where. I just wanted to wake up in my tiny apartment with my neighbor's cat and my instant noodles and my boring, safe life.

But no. Instead, I was curled on the floor of a mafia boss's SUV, getting shot at by what I could only assume were other mafia people, because apparently this was my life now.

The shooting stopped as suddenly as it started. The SUV slowed. I heard voices. The man's, sharp and commanding. Others responding.

Then silence.

I stayed on the floor, too terrified to move.

"It's over," the man said.

I peeked up. He was looking at me, gun still in hand, not a hair out of place. Meanwhile, I looked like I'd been through a tornado. A tornado made of bullets and bad decisions.

"You said we weren't going to die," I muttered.

"We didn't."

"We almost did."

"Almost doesn't count."

I wanted to argue, but honestly, I was too exhausted. And also possibly in shock. Again.

The rest of the drive was a blur.

When we finally stopped, I looked out the window and saw a mansion. An actual mansion. With gates and fountains and probably a hedge maze or something equally ridiculous.

"This is your house?" I asked.

"Yes."

"It's huge."

"Yes."

Of course it was. Because why wouldn't a man who casually murders people and gets into gunfights also live in a place that looked like it belonged in a magazine?

He led me inside, up a grand staircase that probably cost more than my entire education, and down a hallway to a guest room that was bigger than my apartment.

"You can stay here tonight," he said.

"Why are you doing this?" I asked. "Why not just kill me?"

"Because you're not a threat."

"Then let me go."

"Not yet."

I wanted to argue, but the look in his eyes told me it would be pointless. So I just stood there, exhausted and filthy and covered in tiny cuts from the glass.

"There's a bathroom through that door," he said, pointing. "Clean clothes in the closet. I'll bring something to treat that cut."

"I can do it myself."

"I'm sure you can."

He left, and I stood there for a moment, staring at the closed door.

Then I looked down at myself. My shirt was torn and covered in blood. Glass glittered in my hair. I smelled like fear and sweat and gunpowder.

I needed a shower.

Desperately.

The bathroom was, predictably, enormous. All marble and gold fixtures and a tub that could fit three people. I turned on the shower, let the water heat up, and peeled off my ruined clothes.

The hot water felt like heaven. I stood under the spray, watching dirt and blood swirl down the drain, trying to process everything that had happened in the last few hours.

I'd witnessed a murder. Been kidnapped. Been shot at. Twice.

And somehow, I was still alive.

I didn't know whether to laugh or cry, so I did neither. I just stood there, letting the water wash away the worst of the night, even though I knew the memories would linger much longer.

When I finally got out, I wrapped myself in a towel and realized I'd left my clothes on the bed. The clean ones the man who kidnapped me had mentioned were probably in the closet.

I opened the bathroom door and stepped back into the bedroom.

My shirt was still on the bed where I'd left it. I walked over, dropping the towel, and reached for the clean clothes in the closet. I pulled on the pants first, then stood there in just my bra and pants, examining my reflection in the mirror.

I had a bruise forming on my shoulder. Dark purple against pale skin. The cut on my temple had stopped bleeding but looked angry and red.

I looked like I'd been through a war.

Because I had.

I was reaching for the clean shirt when the door opened.

No knock. No warning. Just the door swinging open.

My kidnapper stood there, first aid kit in hand, his eyes landing on me.

On my half naked body.

For one horrible, frozen moment, neither of us moved.

I could see his eyes flicker, just briefly, taking in my bare skin, the bruise on my shoulder, the curve of my waist.

Then his gaze met mine.

And I screamed.

"GET OUT!"

He didn't move immediately. Just stood there, expression unreadable.

"I said GET OUT!" I grabbed the shirt, holding it against my chest.

"I brought the first aid kit," he said calmly, as if this was completely normal.

"I DON'T CARE! GET OUT!"

Finally, he stepped back, but not before his lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile.

"Next time, lock the door," he said.

Then he closed it behind him.

I stood there, heart pounding, face burning with embarrassment and fury.

Next time? NEXT TIME?

There wasn't going to be a next time because I was going to make sure that door had seventeen locks and possibly a chair wedged under the handle.

I pulled on the shirt with shaking hands, my mind racing.

Whatever-This-Man's-Name-Was had just seen me half naked.

The man who'd killed someone in front of me. The man who'd kidnapped me. The man whose world I'd somehow stumbled into.

And he'd smiled.

I sat down on the bed, trying to calm my racing heart.

This was fine. Everything was fine. I'd survived this long. I could survive a little embarrassment.

But as I lay down, staring at the ceiling, I couldn't stop thinking about that smile.

And that terrified me more than anything else that had happened tonight.