I hated violence at my core, and I tried to avoid people who reveled in it. I’d grown up around traces of violence so vicious that even to this day my stomach still churn thinking about the innocent people who’d died so others could grow richer. Being in this situation definitely didn't sit right with me. Not just because I was kidnapped, but because I couldn't help but think about the people that got injured in that restaurant.
I also couldn't stop thinking about Nicolas's boss and if he had something to do with this kidnapping.
No neI worked with or even crossed paths with like the mafia type, but life had taught me that those you least expected to be fuckers always ended up being the worst.
Kicking off my heels, I lay back on the bed, hoping Gio would be back soon with my water. Maybe I could close my eyes for a second. Just a minute until he comes back. I'd rest them a bit before figuring out what I should do.
Just for a second.
"Cazzo!"
I jumped up in the bed as the shoutbounced off the walls, echoing around me while I tried to get my bearings.
Where the fuck...
Ah.
AAAAH.
"Stupid fucking shit," came from the direction of the bathroom, and as I looked around, I realized I was in near total darkness, a blanket thrown over me. Light poured through the open bathroom door, and I didn't need a PhD to figure out that the voice was coming from there.
There was some more cursing, grunting, before another shout came through.
"Okay," I muttered, throwing the blanket off of me and getting up from the bed. Whoever was in there was either getting tortured or they had a really bad case of diarrhea, and either way, I needed to sleep.
Was it stupid to get up and see what was going on? Most definitely. But this wasn't a horror movie, and I wasn’t expecting a boogeyman.
I'd already met him.
And he was way too hot to qualify.
Tiptoeing toward the door, I pushed it open only to be met by a scene that could fall both under the horror movie genre but also porn. Because right in front of the sink stood a shirtless man, a towelaround his hips and blood all over the sink, dripping on the floor. And, yeah, the towel as well.
The towel that sat far too low on.
The towel that was probably too small for him.
The towel I had no idea how he’d managed to secure.
Tattoos covered his back, snaked down his arms, crept up his nec. When I looked up, I met his eyes through the mirror. Amused. Knowing.
"Take a good look, I don't mind."
I fucking gulped.
It wasn't fair that someone like him got to look this good. It wasn't fair that he was sculpted like a Greek God. How were the rest of us supposed to survive? And worse, his gaze dropped to me, slow and deliberate, heat blooming as it dragged over my body.
"W-What–-" I cleared my throat. "What are you doing here?"
"I live here."
I rolled my eyes. "No shit, Sherlock. I meant, what are you doing inthisbathroom, and what are you–" I looked at his hand, only then realizing where all the blood was coming from. "What the fuck are you doing?"
"Well.” His eyebrow arched. “Seeing as someone stabbed me a couple of hoursago, I had to clean the wound and wrap it up. I might be the villain in your story, but even villains didn't want to die from infections."
Yeah, and I didn't want to die from a heart attack, but we couldn't always get what we wanted, could we now?
He looked down at his hand and then at the bottle sitting on top of the sink, and I didn't miss the resigned look on his face.