Page 116 of Love to Defy You
Wait... He didn’t have his phone on him. I can’t remember why thanks to the hazy fog encasing my brain and my anxiety spiking in these strange surroundings.
A hard lump forms in my throat, and I lift a trembling hand to grasp the base of my neck. All I want to do is break down and cry, but I need to stay calm and figure out where I am.
It’s hazy and disjointed, but a memory fights through the fog to the forefront of my brain. A phone buzzing in Enzo’s carry-on bag... It wasn’t his... And I was frightened of him.
That’s right, I remember now. He drugged me and probably brought me here.
A white robe hangs on a hook near the door. I grab onto the corner of the clawed bathtub and haul myself to my feet, though the nausea is bubbling up again and the floor isn’t steady beneath me. I don’t know where my suitcase is with all my clothes, so the robe will have to do for now.
I need to get out of here, and fast.
I tiptoe back into the bedroom and head toward the closed door. When I turn the handle, I pull it open just enough to peer out. It leads into a long hallway with oil paintings hanging in intricate gold frames on the walls. A crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling, bathing the corridor of closed doors in golden light.
When I open my door farther, it lets out a loud creak, and I freeze. I have no idea if Enzo or anyone else is here, but my gut tells me to sneak out as quietly as I can.
A few moments pass as I listen for approaching footsteps, but I hear nothing.
I open the door slowly, an inch at a time, until there’s a gap wide enough for me to pass through. My bare feet step onto hardwood, then a carpet runner, and I creep down the strange hallway as quiet as a mouse.
The corridor leads to a wooden staircase with a gold railing, and I take the first step down. I move slowly so my footsteps don’t echo on the wood or make the stairs creak.
Savory aromas waft up the stairs, and my stomach growls with hunger. I clutch my middle as though I can muffle the sound with my arms, praying it doesn’t give away my location.
I’m not sure how long it’s been since I last ate, but judging by the clenching pain in my stomach, I’d guess it’s been a while. I didn’t throw up anything except liquid bile in the toilet, and my legs feel so weak that I have to grip the railing for support as I make my way down.
I emerge in a living room, which is decorated in garish gold furnishings similar to the bedroom upstairs. Across the room is an archway that leads to a marbled foyer, and I catch a glimpse of the front door.
If I can just make it outside without being noticed, I can figure out where I am and find help.
I cross the long stretch toward the foyer, feeling rather exposed beneath the vaulted ceilings. The living room is wide open, and if anyone walks in, I’m impossible to miss.
When I reach the archway, I manage to take a breath, but my relief is short-lived. Before I can make it to the door, a figure walks in from the opposite side.
“Ah, good, you’re awake.” Enzo gives me a broad grin. “Come to the kitchen. Dinner’s almost ready.”
He approaches me and wraps his arm around my waist, then leads me into another room. I stiffen at his touch but say nothing. The situation feels precarious, like one wrong word could be my death sentence. I’ve come to learn that Enzo is unpredictable, and there’s a maniacal side to him I’ve only caught glimpses of. I don’t want to be on the receiving end of his wrath.
We enter the kitchen, which has off-white cabinets and granite countertops. He leads me over to the island and the gold barstools with plush, champagne upholstery and pulls out a chair for me. “Here, have a seat.”
“Enzo,” I whisper in a trembling voice. “I can’t stay.”
His smile evaporates, and he regards me with a cold expression. “I said, sit down.”
I remain rooted in my spot, but when I glance at the foyer, Enzo grabs a large chef’s knife off the counter. He points the end toward me, then to the barstool at the kitchen island.
“I won’t ask you again.” His steely gaze remains fixated on me.
Swallowing, I take a shaky step toward the barstool and slide onto the seat.
“That’s a good girl.” Enzo’s expression brightens, and he sets the knife down on the counter beside him. “Hungry?”
Even though I’m starving, I shake my head, and my hands tremble so violently I have to fold them in my lap.
“Willow,” he coos. “You’ve been through a lot the past few days. You need to eat something.” He picks up the pan from the stove and slides the contents out onto plates.
When his back is turned, I glance at the front door again, but I’m not sure I’d make it in time before he catches me. Considering how unsteady I still am on my feet, there’s no way I can outrun him.
Enzo places a plate of pasta topped with chicken in front of me. He takes the adjacent seat, his thigh brushing against mine, and presses a kiss to my cheek. His touch startles me, and I recoil away from him on instinct.
