Page 51 of Blood Debt
The hand at my waist doesn’t move. Then, without warning, he lifts me.
Both hands under my thighs.
“Wait—” I gasp, breath catching. “Put me down!” I snap, struggling against his grip, but his hold is solid—iron wrapped in heat.
He doesn't answer.
Cristofano strides across the room like I weigh nothing, ignoring the tray, ignoring my fists pressing into his chest.
The bed looms.
I kick.
My knee catches him hard in the thigh—he grunts, but it only fuels him. The next moment, I’m slammed onto the mattress with a jolt that knocks the breath from my lungs.
He’s on me before I can roll away—hovering, one hand braced beside my head, the other gripping my hip with possessive force. His weight doesn’t crush me, but it commands the space around me.
His eyes burn into mine, jaw clenched.
“You’re my maid,” he says, voice low and taut. “In my house. In my room. I own everything in it—including you.”
My heart pounds against my ribs like a warning drum.
His face is inches from mine. His breath—smoke and mint and anger—fans across my cheek.
“Stop pretending you’re better than my attention. Stop acting like you don’t know what you’re doing.” His gaze flickers to my mouth. “Or do the guards get it first?”
I don’t even think.
My hand flies.
The slap rings out. His head jerks slightly to the side, but he doesn’t move away.
I scramble, pushing up, trying to twist out from under him, but he grabs my wrist—then my waist again—and hauls me upright.
I break free just enough to backpedal, my chest heaving, fury and fear burning in equal measure.
I head toward the door—needing to leave before I do something reckless—but his hand closes around my arm again.
He spins me around and presses me back to the wall. Cold plaster at my spine, heat at my front. His arms box me in.
Both of us are breathing hard now.
Staring.
My voice comes out sharper than I mean. “What? The woman who left your bed didn’t please you enough?”
His expression hardens, but his voice doesn’t rise.
“It’s not her I want.”
My lips part. My body is still rigid beneath his.
“I’m just a filthy maid,” I whisper, almost spitting the words. “Beneath you.”
His hand lifts. Fingers curl softly against the side of my neck.
“I don’t care.”
