Page 33 of Stolen By the Don

Water?I open my eyes as Roman kicks open a door, surprised to see we’re in a bathroom. And it’s not mine either.

“Where am I?” I ask.

“Bathroom,” he says as he places me on my feet.

“I know that,” I say. But I didn’t feel him climbing the stairs, which means we’re on the first floor. There are only two bathrooms on the first floor, one not in use and the other—I gasp. “Your room?!”

He shrugs like the detail makes no difference. “Yes.”

“Wh—why would you bring me here?” I question, taking a step forward with the intent of leaving. He stops me. Not with his arms wide open, like a barricade, but the mere presence of him standing in front of the door blocks most of the gateway.

Roman tilts his head, a lazy, floating smile on his lips. “Why else?”

“Why else?” My voice is shrill as panic sets in.

Sex?He’s going to have his way with me, isn’t he?I mean, he talked about it. He said it would happen, and I bragged about how unaffected I was. Called him big and strong and said he could take charge. And he brought me here, to his bathroom. With a whole freaking bath ready.

If that’s not taking charge and making me eat my words, I don’t know what is.

And the way he’s looking at me…his deep blue eyes raking over my body shamelessly, makes my damp clothes wet again. I feel soaked to the bone, but not from the rain or cold.

It’s heat—wet, heavy, body-sucking, nerve-racking heat. It breaks down my resolve, building a puddle of need in its wake.

“I don’t want to.” I shake my head with as much firmness as I can muster, although my voice is merely a whisper.

“Don’t want what?” he asks.

Do I have to say it out loud? That I don’t want his hands on me?

But I do—I want him to touch me. Every part of my senses is heightened and filled with his scent. I can see the muscles under his shirt and the stretch of his shoulders.

I know what it feels like to be breathless and helpless under his unabashed, hungry gaze. When I walked out of my bathroom the other day and found him in the bedroom, I felt that split-second throbbing between my thighs before I screamed at him to get out.

But I shouldn’t want him.

I’m his prisoner, and if it hadn’t rained, I would’ve been halfway across the city by now, planning my revenge.

“Take off your clothes, Bella.”

“No.” I cross my arms against my chest. “You might’ve found me, but I won’t let you force yourself on me.”

His brows shoot up, and for a split second, pure confusion slices across his face—before he tosses his head back and laughs. It’s not cruel, but it stings all the same.

“Force myself on you? When you’re two minutes from turning into a corpse from hypothermia?” His voice is dry with exasperation as he gestures toward the steaming tub. “I want you to get in before your lips turn blue.”

Oh.

I glance at the water, suddenly aware of the soft curls of steam rising toward me like beckoning fingers. The heat wraps aroundmy frozen skin even from a distance, and I shiver in response, not from the cold but from realizing how badly I misread him.

“Oh,” I murmur, my voice a whisper of mortification. I bite my lip, then add, quieter still, “I thought?—”

“Clothes. Off.”

He cuts me off before I finish, his tone firm and devoid of patience, leaving no room for explanations or the lingering shame clinging to my spine.

I hesitate, fingers inching toward the damp fabric of the overalls. My hands tremble as I start to peel them off—until I remember he’s still here. Still watching.

Without turning around, I steel myself. “Can you…please leave?”

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