Page 15 of Ruined

Evelyn Anderson. So fucking delicate. So fucking strong. The way she stood up to me in the car, even after everything—most people would be broken by now. Not her.

From a distance I could pretend. I could watch her play, watch her smile, watch her move through the world untouched by the filth I live in. I could protect her without contaminating her.

But this?

This is kidnapping. This is forcing her into my life. This is marking her as mine in a way that can't be undone.

Ivan will never stop looking for her now. I've painted a target on her back, and for what?

Because I couldn't stand the thought of Ivan having her? Because I'm selfish enough to destroy her life just to keep her close?

The water shuts off in the bathroom. I close my eyes, listening to her movements. Soft footsteps. The rustle of fabric. She's putting on my clothes.

My clothes touching her skin.

This is bad. Fucking bad.

CHAPTER 6

Istep into the bathroom and catch my breath. It's all gleaming marble and glass—nothing like the cozy vintage charm of my own apartment. Everything here screams money and power. The shower alone is bigger than my closet at home, with multiple shower heads and some kind of digital control panel. The countertops are pristine white marble with subtle gray veining. Even the towels look expensive, thick and plush, hanging on heated racks.

I lock the door behind me, though I'm not naive enough to think it would stop him if he wanted to come in. A flimsy lock against a man who just took down three armed attackers? The thought should terrify me.

But it doesn't. Not really.

I can't explain why I'm not shaking with fear. Maybe it's shock. Maybe it's because he had every opportunity to hurt me already and didn't. Or maybe it's the way he looked at me when he thought I wasn't watching—like I was something precious, not just property to be claimed.

I strip off my concert dress, now stained with blood that isn't mine, and step into the shower. The hot water hits my skin and I finally let myself feel everything I've been holding back.

"Don't cry," I say to myself. "Don't you dare cry."

The command reminds me of my father. How many times had he said those exact words to me before performances?

"Straighten your back, Evelyn. Don't slouch."

"That passage was sloppy. Again. From the beginning."

"Tears are weakness. Excellence doesn't weep."

I let the water run over my face, washing away the tears that come despite my best efforts. My whole life has been about control—my father's control. Every note I played, every dress I wore, every smile I gave to an audience. All of it choreographed by Alexander Anderson, who saw his daughter not as a person but as an extension of himself.

My mother was no better. She'd sit silently during my father's critiques, occasionally offering a gentle "Listen to your father, Evelyn. He knows what's best."

The irony isn't lost on me. I've escaped one prison only to find myself in another. Yet somehow, this gilded cage feels different. Noah Rivera may be dangerous—he's clearly capable of violence—but he looks at me like he sees me. Not just the violin prodigy, not just the perfect daughter, but me.

I press my forehead against the cool stone of the shower wall. What is wrong with me? I should be terrified. I should be plotting my escape, not standing here contemplating the strange lack of fear I feel toward my captor.

I rinse the shampoo from my hair, trying to focus on the simple task rather than the man waiting outside the door. But my mind keeps drifting back to Noah. Those dark eyes. The way his shirt stretches across his shoulders. The casual confidence in how he moves.

"Stop it," I mutter to myself, turning the water temperature colder.

It's ridiculous. He kidnapped me. He's holding me against my will. He's dangerous and probably kills people for a living. And yet...

A warmth spreads through my lower belly that has nothing to do with the shower. I press my thighs together, shocked at my body's betrayal. What kind of woman gets turned on by her captor? The kind of women who read those dark romance novels, who fantasize about being taken by dangerous men with tattoos and scars.

I'm not that woman. I'm Evelyn Anderson. I play Paganini at Carnegie Hall. I drink tea with my pinky out. I don't daydream about criminals, no matter how attractive they might be.

Besides, it's been over a year since David and I broke up. David, with his safe corporate job and his safe corporate apartment and his safe, boring sex that never quite satisfied me. The few men I've dated since then never made it past a second date. My body is just... reacting to proximity. To adrenaline. To anything male after so long.

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