Page 30 of Mafia King's Forbidden Obsession

It's silent again as I let my eyes roam the floor. Marinated chicken breast, salad cream, shaved parmesan, and toasted bread are scattered around the scene. I move to rub my wrist when I notice that it's red and laced with prints from his fingers.

Ugh. What happens if I simply accept my fate? A voice in my head questions. After all, I’m not living badly at the moment. The bed is soft, the food is great, and the clothes… well, the clothes Ezra left for me are nicer than anything I’ve worn in years. Maybe it will not be as horrible as I think it to be.

Seriously, Raven? What about freedom? And everything else…

Not having freedom is the scariest.

Focus, Raven.I scold myself and shake my head to snap out of it.

What is wrong with you? You are not supposed to be settling in.

I’m still in my thoughts when the door opens, and a man in faded clothes comes in to clean the messed-up floor. I ignore his scrunched face and his inaudible whispers as I get up and head to the bathroom. It’s hopeless, anyway.

Trying to make friends with them doesn't work because they're all standoffish, and every person who walks in this room is very different from the last.

I reach the bathroom and take a moment to glance at it…like every time I visit. The tub is a shimmery white enormous basin, overlooking the massive mirror hanging opposite it on the wall. A few feet from the tub, there's a spacious shower stall with floor-to-ceiling glass doors. It's beautiful, I admit, something fit for a mansion.

A deep breath follows my movement as I bend to fill the basin with warm water. When the water is perfect, I pour in lavender-scented bath oil. This and other essentials were brought in a few days after my arrival.

The scent hits me immediately, soothing in a good way. A lady must have picked this scent; that is if there are ladies in this mansion.

After stripping my clothes, I slip into the water, letting out a sigh. The heat wraps around me, melting away the tension in my body. It eases the tightness in my muscles. I let myself relax for a moment and sink deeper into the warmth.

I’ve always had my bath this way, but this, despite my circumstances, feels good, strangely. Like the first break I’ve had in years after working long hours at the hospital. Like a spa day.

That's the only thought I let fill my mind as I slip into slumber. I don’t know how long I spend in the water, but when I wake up from my nap, the water is cold. I get out and throw on a pink nightgown.

Just as I shrug it on, the door bursts open, and Ezra strolls in. Deja vu hits me, memories of the previous day filtering into my head.

What's he doing here? And why the hell can’t he knock?

My questions remain unanswered as I let my eyes involuntarily trail down his body. As opposed to the usual suit or long-sleeved shirt I usually see him wear, he's wearing something else— something that makes my mouth water.

Ugh! I want to kill myself right now for having these thoughts.

But as much as I try to stop my stupid thoughts, it suddenly becomes hard for me to swallow as I take in his grey wife beater, which clings to every inch of his muscles. I can see his toned arms, circled with ink and laced with glints of sweat. The sweat seems to roll down his arms at the pulsing movement of his biceps.

Before I can think of why he's sweating, I'm distracted again, this time by the deep indents that mark the curve of his abs. Fuck. I can almost count them.

They start from his broad chest, spanning the space directly under his breast as they ripple down in a series of varying depths and lengths. My fingers instantly itch to trace those abs, but since I can't, I settle for using my eyes. I continue to eye fuck him, tracing the abs that mark his abdomen, until I reach two almost horizontal lines that go down into his pants.

His pants…that’s another reason to force a second large gulp through my throat. Ezra is wearing light grey joggers, almost the same shade as his singlet but a shade lighter. The fabric is thin, painfully so, that it reveals the heavy lines of his dic—

“Trying to escape again?”

When I look up at him, he’s raising an eyebrow, a hint of something indecipherable playing in his eyes. Amusement? Curiosity?

Forcing my eyes away from his gaze, I bring myself to reality before I answer his question.

“Escape? No… no. It was an accident.” Much to my dismay, my voice comes out on a weak breath.

Even though I'm aware he must have heard from his men already, I still lie.

A small sound of distaste leaves his lips at my response. I don’t look him in the eye. But out of the corner of my eyes, I see him fold his arms.

His muscles bulge at the movement, and I resist the urge to run my tongue against my lips. Why is he wearing a singlet and stupid thin joggers anyway? Gym?

And why the hell is he having this effect on me when I should be hating his guts?

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