Trapped
1126 Words
The lock on the elevator clicked shut like the sound of a prison cell closing.
I stood in the center of the Romano penthouse, the air conditioning blasting against my wet skin, shivering violently. But the cold wasn't what terrified me.
It was the heat radiating from Matteo Romano.
He had cornered me against the high-backed leather sofa. He wasn't touching me—not yet—but he was close enough that I could smell him. Expensive scotch, and the distinct, metallic tang of a predator on the edge of control.
“You,” he breathed, the word shuddering out of him. “You’re quiet.”
He wasn’t talking about my voice. He was talking about his head.
He reached out, his hand trembling. His fingers hovered inches from my face, desperate but hesitant, like a man afraid the mirage would vanish if he made contact.
“Matteo,” I said, my voice steady despite the adrenaline flooding my veins. “Let me go.”
“Go?” He let out a dark, jagged laugh. “You just turned off a scream that has been ringing in my ears since I was ten years old. You aren’t going anywhere.”
He closed the distance.
His hand cupped my cheek.
The reaction was instantaneous. His eyes rolled back in his head, the silver irises practically glowing. His knees hit the floor with a heavy thud, dragging me down with him.
“God,” he groaned, pressing his face into my palm. He slumped against me, his massive frame heavy and unyielding. “Silence. Finally, silence.”
It was terrifying. The most dangerous Alpha in the city was kneeling at my feet, practically comatose from the simple act of touching my skin.
I looked at him—at the sweat beading on his forehead, the dark circles under his eyes that spoke of years of insomnia. He wasn’t attacking me. He was using me. I was like a human morphine drip.
“I’m not a pet,” I whispered, trying to pull my hand away.
His grip tightened instantly. Not enough to break bone, but enough to warn.
“No,” he mumbled into my palm, his voice slurring. “Not a pet. A… necessity.” He cracked one eye open, the silver swirling with a drugged haze. “I will pay you. Name your price. Houses. Cars. Whatever you want. Just… don’t move.”
“And if I want to leave?”
“Denied.” The word was sharp, final. “You stay. You live here. You touch me when I need it. You sleep where I can reach you.”
My blood ran cold.
He didn't want a partner. He didn't even want a mistress. He wanted a living, breathing stress ball. A battery he could drain whenever the madness got too loud.
I thought about the Moretti mansion. Twenty years of being a "perfect daughter," a prop to be brought out for galas and photos, then shelved when the real heir returned.
I looked at Matteo. He was offering the exact same cage, just with gilded bars.
I am not trading one master for another.
“Matteo,” I said softly. “You’re tired.”
“Exhausted,” he admitted, his eyelids drooping. The relief was sedating him faster than any drug. His breathing deepened, his grip on my wrist loosening just a fraction.
“Sleep,” I whispered. “It’s okay. Just sleep.”
I kept my hand on his cheek, using my thumb to stroke his cheekbone. It was a calculated move. A rhythmic, soothing motion designed to push him over the edge into unconsciousness.
He fought it for a moment, his jaw tightening, but his body betrayed him. I suppose years of sleep deprivation crashed into him all at once. His head grew heavy in my lap. His breathing evened out into a deep, rhythmic rhythm.
The grip on my wrist went slack.
I waited sixty seconds. I counted them by the beat of my own terrified heart.
Then, I moved.
I carefully, slowly, slid my hand out from under his cheek. He grumbled something in his sleep and shifted, turning his face into the sofa cushion, but he didn’t wake.
I scrambled backward, crab-walking across the expensive rug until I was out of reach.
I stood up, my legs shaking, but one thing rang loudly in my mind; Get out. Now.
I ran to the elevator. I slammed my hand against the call button. There was nothing. The red light glared at me. Lockdown Mode.
I spun around, panic clawing at my throat. The penthouse was a fortress. The windows were bulletproof glass. The only way out was the elevator.
I looked at Matteo, passed out on the floor.
I needed a key.
I crept back toward him. He looked almost peaceful in sleep, the lines of pain smoothed out of his face. For a second, a pang of guilt struck me—he was suffering, and I was the only cure.
Then I remembered he had just told me I was his property. The guilt evaporated.
I knelt beside him. My heart was thundering so loud I was sure it would wake him.
I reached out and took his right hand.
He stirred, causing me to freeze.
He didn't wake. He just sighed, seeking the warmth of my hand even in his sleep.
I dragged his heavy arm toward the biometric pad mounted on the wall by the wet bar—the master control for the room.
Please let it be fingerprint. Please don’t be retinal.
I pressed his thumb against the scanner. It beeped.
“Lockdown disengaged,” a computerized voice announced softly.
The elevator doors chimed and slid open.
I dropped his hand. He whined—a low, pathetic sound—at the loss of contact.
I didn't look back. I ran for the doors. But as I passed the coat rack, I paused.
It was pouring outside. I was in a ruined dress. I had no money, no phone, and everyone was looking for me.
I grabbed a heavy black umbrella with the Romano crest on the handle. It looked sturdy enough to be a weapon.
I stepped into the elevator and hit the button for the lobby.
As the doors slid shut, I saw Matteo stir on the floor. His eyes snapped open.
They were wide. Silver. And furious.
He roared—a sound of pure loss and rage that shook the glass walls.
“LUCIA!”
The doors closed.
I leaned against the metal wall as the elevator plummeted toward the ground floor, gasping for air.
I had escaped the wolf’s den.
But now I was out in the wild. And the hunt was on.
- Writer
