It was clear that Primo slept on the side nearest to the door judging by the discarded coffee cup on the nightstand and a pair of cufflinks left sitting close enough to the edge to fall off.
I had the asinine urge to go over there and push them back so they didn’t fall. What did I care if he lost one of his fancy cufflinks? I wasn’t supposed to be helping the man who’d ripped me off the streets and out of my old life. Hell, I should have been walking around the house, breaking all his mirrors and spilling all his olive oil, hoping to bring some bad luck into his life. The kind of bad luck that would make me a young widow, and free to get back to my old life.
I took a slow, deep breath, then let it out on a sigh.
That was likely a pipe dream.
The reality was, I was probably stuck with this man forever.
“At least my prison is pretty,” I mumbled to myself as I moved past the bed to the far wall where Primo had another—smaller—record shelf set up with a wooden player on top with a clear plastic cover.
The man clearly liked his music.
Across from the bed was a dresser. Above was a framed piece of art in reds and blacks that made me immediately feel unsettled when looking at it, so I didn’t spend much time with that.
Finished with the bedroom, I walked through to the master bath.
A low, whimpering noise escaped me. Because it was the bathroom of my dreams with its glass shower enclosure with multiple shower heads as well as a rain shower head above. The tile in it was a muted black that gave it a sexy look I’d only ever seen in movies. The large soaking tub to the side of the space was a similar black color. As were the double sink vanities. Even the sinks themselves and the toilet were black.
It should have been oppressive, but it just looked sleek and sexy and way too inviting.
I guess it was a good thing I liked it since I would be using it day in and out. And it was damn sure an improvement from my shoebox, outdated bathroom in my apartment.
Curious, I moved toward the vanity it looked like Primo used, picking up the little black bottle of cologne sitting there, and taking a sniff.
“Damn him,” I grumbled as my body responded to the spicy scent.
It was right about then that I finally caught sight of myself in the round mirror above the vanity, though.
It wasn’t good.
I guess I figured I must have looked rough, but the reality was worse than expected. Dried mascara clung to my cheeks. My eyes were puffy from my panic attack crying. And the skin of my cheeks was raw from the tears.
It shouldn’t have mattered. I didn’t want to be pretty for him. But some internal vanity reared its ugly head, having me grabbing for one of the washcloths—black, and I felt it was safe to assume it was Primo’s favorite color—wet it, and went to work on my face with cold water until I got all my smeared makeup off, leaving me looking younger than I did with it on.
Reaching up, I pulled the tie out of my hair, shaking the long strands out over my shoulders as I took a few deep, steadying breaths.
It was pointless to freak out, after all. It wouldn’t change my fate.
What I should have been focusing on was how to work this situation to my advantage. There had to be a way, even if nothing was coming to me at the moment.
Dropping the washcloth in the—yep, black—hamper, I moved toward the only other door, opening it, and finding myself in a mini hallway that went off in both directions.
Giant, walk-in, his & her closets.
The left side was filled with Primo’s wardrobe that seemed to consist of nothing but black. The man didn’t own a single item of white clothing. The one to the right, though, was empty save for the built-in shelving units. It was a closet I wouldn’t have a panic attack about entering.
Small wins.
I had to count them.
They might be few and far between.
I moved back out of the closet and bathroom to go stand in the bedroom, unsure what to do with myself for however long it was going to take for Primo to return to drag me to my fate.
I found myself pacing the room for a few useless moments, needing to spend my nervous energy. Once it was gone, I found myself dropping onto the edge of the bed. For all of two minutes before unwanted images flashed through my mind.
Of me in that bed.
Of Primo in it as well.
He wanted an heir.
It was non-negotiable.
Which meant I was going to need to endure sex with him.
Would he take it if I wasn’t willing?
Of course he would. Because I was never going to be willing.
On a choked, dying animal noise, I moved off the bed, dropping down on the floor over near his record player instead, leaning back against the wall, closing my eyes, and trying to escape from the warehouse in my mind.
My mind went right where it always went.
To my family.
Emilio would blame himself. And I had no way of reaching out to remind him that it was my choice, that I would do anything to save him and all our loved ones. My mother. God, my mother was going to be a wreck. An absolute wreck. Same went for my other siblings, for my cousins. Especially because it was going to be weeks or months before Primo would let me reach out to them to let them know I was okay.
“There’s a bed right there,” the loud, smooth, deep voice said, making my whole body jolt as my eyes shot open, finding Primo standing just inside the doorway.
“Your bed,” I said, voice rough.
That damn brow rose again and I decided it was a condescending movement. And I hated him even more for it.
“Your bed now too,” he said, shrugging.
“I’d rather sleep on the floor,” I grumbled.
Primo ignored that.
“Are you going to dress or what?” he asked, making my brows draw together.
“This is all I own right now,” I said, waving down at my work outfit—slacks and a blouse. Nothing special. And more than a little wrinkled and dirty from the events of the day.
“The dress in the closet. I’m assuming you’ve thoroughly inspected the space.”
“There was nothing in the closet,” I said, chin lifting.
“There is a dress. And shoes,” he said.
“There’s not,” I countered.
“There is.”
“Go see for yourself if you’re so damn certain,” I invited, waving toward the closet.
Primo turned and moved through the bedroom to the bathroom.
And because I knew I was right and was just a teensy bit competitive that way, I got up to follow, standing in the doorway with my arms folded.
“See?” I said, jerking my chin up when he whipped around to face me.
“No. It is here,” Primo insisted, moving into the closet that would eventually be mine.
“Really? Where? Is there a secret compartment in the wall?” I asked, tone dry, getting a glance from him, but I couldn’t read what I found in his eyes.
“She must have put it in my closet,” he grumbled, storming past me into his own closet, taking a moment to find a garment bag and a shoebox.
“She?” I asked, watching as he moved into my side of the closet, hanging up the bag and putting the shoebox down on the ground.
“The housekeeper.”
“You have a housekeeper?”
“Do you think I have time to wash my own dishes?”
“Well, she missed the coffee cup on your nightstand,” I told him. “What?” I asked, seeing something flash across his gaze.