Page 33 of Deadly Wrath

He doesn’t question it, just gives a nod before heading downstairs. As I turn, something near the front door catches my eye, Paola. She locks up behind Alonzo, making sure everything is secure.

It’s too late for her to be up. “Paola,” I call, meeting her at the bottom of the stairs. “What are you still doing up?”

She places a hand on her chest, startled. “Oh, sir, you gave me a fright,” she breathes, then straightens. “I stayed up in case the young lady needed anything.”

Young lady, not prisoner. I nod. Paola’s been with me for over twelve years. She’s a tough woman, motherly but doesn’t take shit from anyone, even if she’s only 5’2”.

“Did she give you any trouble?”

“No, sir.” She shakes her head. “I made her something to eat. Alonzo took it up. I didn’t speak to her directly.”

Smart.

“Good,” I say, then pause. That nagging thought from earlier is still there. “Tomorrow, get her sizes.” The words leave my mouth before I can second-guess them. “She’ll need clothes and whatever else women need.”

Paola nods. “Of course, sir. I’ll handle it first thing in the morning.” She hesitates, glancing up. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Paola.”

I watch her disappear down the hallway toward the service wing. She must think Olivia is special. She’s not wrong.

Paola’s been around long enough to know I don’t let anyone stay on my floor. Yet Olivia’s here, in a room next to mine. Kota was the one who arranged it. But I didn’t object. And that’s what bothers me. I exhale, dragging my hand down my face. Tomorrow, I’ll deal with Olivia. But for now, all I need is a fucking shower. And my bed.

15

Liv

The sun’s blazing straight into my face, making it impossible to ignore reality. Great, that’s just what I need, a spotlight reminding me that I’m still trapped in this messed-up situation. Love that for me.

With an exaggerated groan, I throw the covers off and drag myself out of bed. My legs feel like lead, my brain feels like mush, and my patience is on empty. I stumble into the bathroom, flick on the cold water, and splash my face like I’m trying to scrub off the last 24 hours. Damn, cold water is like a shock to the senses. At least it gets rid of the fog in my brain.

I blink at the mirror. Jesus. My hair looks like a rabid raccoon got into a fight with it and won. The stupid clip I had in my hair must’ve snapped while sleeping.

“Perfect,” I mutter, raking my fingers through the tangled mess, trying to tame it with some water. It’s useless, so I twist it into a sidebraid that somehow still makes me look like a half-drowned poodle. It’s a mess, but it’ll have to do for now. Hopefully, my curls hold the braid in place without a hair tie.

I glance at the door.Do I sit here like a well-behaved prisoner, or…

My gut says stay put, but the part of me that hates being told what to do, wants to see if I can actually leave. I tiptoe to the door, my hand hovers over the knob for a second before twisting it. It swings open without a hitch.

What the hell? Is this some kind of test, or maybe an “I dare you to be stupid” moment?

I half-expect Alonzo’s stupid face to be lurking outside, ready to catch me mid-escape and drag me back like a disobedient puppy. But when I poke my head out, I don’t see Alonzo. Instead, I’m met with a pair of warm, kind eyes. Not exactly the threat I was imagining.

“Good morning, ma’am,” the woman says, her voice gentle and warm but firm like a mom. “I’m Paola, Don Gualtiero’s maid.”

“Oh, uh, hi.” My voice comes out awkward as hell. “I’m Olivia, but you can call me Liv.” She reaches out, and I shake her hand. But for some reason, she doesn’t let go right away. She guides me out of the doorway, down the long hallway, toward the massive staircase.

“You must be starving,” she says, her voice all motherly warmth. “You didn’t eat much last night. I know it wasn’t much of a meal—more like a child’s lunch, but it was late. I made pancakes and bacon this morning.”

Before I can respond, my stomach lets out the loudest growl known to mankind.

Paola smiles knowingly, like she’s been feeding uncooperative prisoners her whole life. I don’t bother telling her the mountain man destroyed my food last night before I got a chance to eat.

The smell of food pulls me forward like I’m in a trance, and my body drags me downstairs before my brain can catch up. The marble floors gleam so bright they blind me, but I don’t care. I’m on a mission—I’m practically salivating at the thought of shoving pancakes in my mouth.

But then I stop dead in my tracks. Because standing, or rather sitting, at the kitchen island, ishim… the beast himself. I’m not even facing him directly, just his shirtless back, but it’s enough to freeze me on the spot. His tan skin is covered in tattoos, intricate designs that wind down the ridges of his muscles on his back and arms. I don’t realize I’m staring until he turns, and those ice-blue eyes slam into mine.

Shit.

---