Page 374 of Rosetti Family New York
My throat feels dry, but I force myself to speak. This is my only shot, my one chance to turn this disaster into an opportunity. "There's a gala on Friday night. The Callahan Foundation is hosting it at the Plaza, and I'm expected to be there."
The silence that follows is deafening. The grandfather clock's ticking seems to grow louder, marking each second of his consideration. His gaze never leaves my face, and I can practically see him recalculating, reassessing.
"Expected by who?" His voice is dangerously soft.
"Chase." The name feels strange on my tongue now, after everything that's happened. "It's a public event. Donors, board members, society photographers. If I don't show up..." I trail off, letting him fill in the blanks.
"People will ask questions." His voice is thoughtful, not dismissive. That's something I've learned about Matteo in these five days. He listens. Really listens, in a way that most people don't.
"Yes. And Chase knows I never miss foundation events. My absence would be..." I search for the right word. "Conspicuous."
Matteo is quiet for a long moment, that coin dancing between his fingers again. When he speaks, his voice carries a new edge. "Then you'll go."
Relief floods through me so quickly it makes me dizzy. "Really?"
"On my arm."
The relief evaporates. "What?"
He stands, and suddenly the spacious library feels much smaller. He moves with that predatory grace I've come torecognize, closing the distance between us in three measured steps. "You'll go to your gala, bella. But you'll go as mine."
"I can't." The words tumble out before I can stop them. "People will see. They'll talk. Chase will—"
"Chase will what?" His voice drops to something dangerously soft. "Realize that his perfect niece isn't untouchable anymore? That someone else has a claim on her?"
My hands clench into fists at my sides. "I'm not a possession to be claimed."
That smile spreads across his lips, the one that makes my stomach flip and my thighs clench. "Aren't you?"
Before I can answer, he continues, his voice taking on a businesslike tone that somehow makes everything worse. "If you want to go to this gala, we need to set some ground rules." His voice takes on a casual tone, like he's discussing dinner plans rather than my captivity.
I bristle at his tone. "More rules? You're like a damn police manual."
His smile turns sharp, and he takes another step forward. I can feel the bookshelf at my back now, solid and unyielding. "Would you prefer to stay locked in your room instead?"
The threat is delivered casually, but I hear the steel underneath. My mouth goes dry. "What kind of rules?"
"First, no escape attempts. You stay close to me at all times." He braces one hand against the bookshelf beside my head, and I catch the scent of his skin, warm and clean. "Second, any conversation you have with Chase happens where I can see and hear every word. No private chats."
The analytical part of my mind catalogues the positioning, the way he's using his body to cage me in without quite touching. It's a calculated move, designed to overwhelm and intimidate.
But that analytical distance is crumbling fast.
His silver coin appears between his fingers, flipping in that steady rhythm I've learned means he's calculating something dangerous. Now I'm completely trapped, surrounded by leather-bound books and the heat radiating from his body.
"Third," he continues, his voice dropping to a whisper that makes my skin prickle, "you smile when I touch you. You wear what I choose. You play the part of a woman who wants to be there with me."
My breath catches in my throat. The careful control I've been clinging to starts to fracture. "And if I refuse?"
"Then you stay here." His face is inches from mine now, close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his amber eyes, close enough that his breath warms my skin. "But I don't think you'll refuse, Isabella."
Heat blooms in my chest, spreading downward, and I hate how my body responds to him. "You don't know anything about me."
His laugh is low, rough, and it sends vibrations through my chest where we're almost touching. "I know you've been wearing my clothes for five days and you haven't complained once. I know you watch me when you think I'm not looking. I know your pulse races every time I get close to you."
His fingers brush against my throat, finding the rapid flutter of my heartbeat there. The touch is gentle, almost reverent, but it brands me all the same. "Like right now."
Then his other hand moves, sliding beneath the hem of my hoodie. The touch of his palm against my bare breast makes me gasp, my back arching involuntarily against the bookshelf. He doesn't move his hand, doesn't caress or tease. He just holds me there, claiming me with the weight and heat of his skin against mine. The leather spines of the books press into my shoulder blades, grounding me even as I feel like I might float away.
