Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 73655 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73655 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Finally, he releases his hold on me and shakes his head. When he turns his back to me, I cross my arms over my chest to hide my nipples that are now small peaks against the soft pink fabric. I don't want him to see the effect he has on me.
"Are you enjoying the class?" he asks without facing me. "They've told me Violetta is the best," he continues before I can answer his first question. I want to ask him why he didn’t hire my trainer, Adriano, but I don’t bother because I have a feeling that he preferred a woman alone with me.
"Yes, she's good. It was nice to be able to dance again." My voice is a whisper. Before Enzo turns, I pull on my hoodie and let out a breath so I can focus on him being the bad man and me being his prisoner.
"You're exquisite," he tells me suddenly, causing my heart to leap into my throat. He was watching me. I wonder how long he was standing there before the music stopped.
My cheeks burn as he regards me with those dark eyes that seem to dig through my soul, trying to find something I can’t offer him. I cannot tell him what my trump card is, because once I play it, it will ensure he won’t kill me. "Thank you."
"It's not the first time I've seen you dance," he admits, still with his back to me. I wonder if he finds it easier not to look at my face while talking, while confessing his sins. And I wonder how many sins I can get him to admit to.
"Where have you watched me?" I ask, as I pad over to the bar. I hold on to the metal, untying my shoes. Instead of looking at his back, I glance in the mirror, finding his reflection. His profile is that of a tortured man. It's strange. Usually he's so confident, but right now, he looks like he's in pain.
His hands fist at his sides. He doesn't move for such a long time that I wonder if he's ever going to speak again. But then he does, and it knocks the breath from my lungs. "I've spent the past three years watching you, waiting for my moment. When the war first started between our families, I bought every theater in New York, and I planned to buy every theater in every city you would eventually dance in."
His admission has a gasp escaping my lips. I'm frozen in place. My mind races through the words he's just uttered, but they make no sense to me. He doesn't know me. He didn't know me. Surely, I was nothing more than a stranger to him until he learned of the contract. "What?"
This time, he looks at me.
A man possessed. Obsessed.
"You've become something of an addiction for me. As if I can't turn away when you're on the stage. As if you've lured me like a goddamned siren," he tells me, and it shouldn't make my stomach flip-flop with excitement, but it does. "An obsession." Most boyfriends and fiancés buy their women flowers and write poems to them. Mine tells me I'm his obsession.
I'm speechless.
All I can do is watch him. There's nothing to say to what he just told me. I don't know how to feel about it. Maybe, just maybe, my plan will work. There is a fine line between love and obsession, and perhaps I can push Enzo over it. Maybe I can distort the desire in his eyes, and I can make him feel more.
"Don't take this as me confessing my love for you," he says, as if reading my mind. He closes the distance between us quickly. "There is nothing I hate more than a Cavallone," he informs me coldly.
I lean back, my eyes on his. "And what happens when I become a De Rossi?" I challenge. They say never to poke a sleeping bear, but I've always loved a challenge. But the hatred that burns in his eyes makes me wish I could swallow back what I've just said.
The sneer on Enzo's face is nothing short of poisonous. "You may take my name, but you will never have the blood of a De Rossi in your veins," he threatens, causing my heart to drop to my stomach. My lungs struggle to work, to pull in much needed air.
It shouldn't hurt so much.
I don't love this man.
I don't even like him.
Then why does my chest feel so tight when his words hit me there?
"I wouldn't want your blood in my veins, even if I were dying," I bite back as anger takes hold of me. But if I had to truly admit it, I'm trying to hurt him as much as he hurt me. But it doesn't work because he only laughs. The sound bouncing off the mirrors, reflecting at me as my cheeks burn with shame.