Page 33 of Captive Vows
She lowered her gaze. “Let’s say you could. You have no vested interest in making my dreams come true. Youkidnappedme, remember? I’m athingto you.”
“Then what’s the harm in telling me your dreams?”
“Because it’s something secret that you can’t have.”
“But I do. I have you. You’re mine to own.”
She crossed her arms and gave me the start of a coy smile.
And fuck if that wasn’t the last straw. Taking two steps toward her, I caged her against the wall and stared down into her brown eyes. Her breasts pushed against my chest as her breath quickened. Her lips parted in surprise.
“You almost smiled.”
She rolled her eyes. “Are you trying to goad me into being happy about being here?”
I traced the line of her jaw, excited when she seemed to shiver from my touch. There was no missing the heat in her gaze.
“Would you be happy if I made your dreams come true?” My stomach continued to react to the rise of the elevator, but this giddiness was all due to her. This thrill. This intrigue. Hell, she really was getting to me.
“Why would you care if I’m happy?”
“Weren’t you the one who critiqued the concept of answering a question with a question?”
She opened and closed her mouth, stumped. We reached the floor, and the doors opened. I took her hand and led her out. “What are your dreams? To dance?” I pulled a chair out for her at the table while the servers brought dishes out from the other end of the balcony, coming up on their service elevator.
“Yes,” she replied glumly.
“To be on the stage?” I guessed as I sat across from her.
“Yes.” She said it with a glum reluctance. “I’ve always wanted to get into Juilliard. Then be on stage.”
“A performer at heart.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t mock me.”
“Don’t try to tell me what to do.”
“So, I have to sit here and let you mock me about my dreams? Yet, also convince myself that you want me—your thing—to be happy? Sure. Why not embrace this oxymoron?” She made a face before reaching for her water glass.
“I’m not mocking you.” I meant that. But her hurt expression lingered. “How did you get into dancing?”
She lifted her face. “I’m still not dancing for you.”
“I didn’t ask.”
She opened and closed her mouth.
“How did you start dancing?” I asked again.
After letting out a heavy sigh, she explained her interest and how she was mostly self-taught. It was a drastic departure from her previous silent treatment. While asking her to talk about ballet and her passion for dance opened her up, she was still holding back. I could tell. She was factual about her experiences, or lack of them. But she wasn't enthused about the matter.
The next day, at lunch, I asked her about it again. She didn’t disappoint, sharing more about how she taught herself from videos.
The following day, she told me about the studio where she was supposed to be taking classes.
She talked. But she wasn’t lowering her guard.
Keeping her near me at home messed with my head. Even if she was trying not to allow any connection between us, it was inevitable. My reluctance to give her up or sell her worsened. I didn’t need Ivan or Emil to comment on my interest in her. It was implied. With great difficulty, I had to be honest with myself and admit I was gettingtoointerested in her.
