Bad Medicine (Underworld Kings)

I wait a few moments, holding my breath as I wonder if he’ll remove the hood from my head, and when he does, it takes a moment to regain my sight. Blinking and letting my eyes adjust to the light, I see he's not in front of me. He’s behind me, his hands on my hips while I get my bearings. I’m not quite ready to face him, so instead of twisting around immediately to see the face of my captor, I take a look at the entryway of what I can only describe as a castle… or a cathedral.

It's haunting but beautiful. Money. He has lots of money, unless this is someone else's place and he's just borrowing it. But I doubt that’s the case. I sense an air of authority from him that states clearly he is the king of this palace. The entire house is made up of white and gray walls with accents of black and gold. It’s truly magnificent. I get so lost taking in the intricate surroundings that I nearly forget my situation and how we got here.

“Your new home, piccolina.”

My heart stops in my chest. His voice is hoarse and deep, but what really catches my attention is the sound of his feet moving slowly, letting me know I'm about to come face-to-face with the man who took me. I try to hold steady with my breathing, but it's choppy and matches how I feel internally—terrified yet… excited.

I'm not prepared for what my eyes behold when he comes to not just stand but tower over me. My breath hitches, catching as I take in his raw masculine beauty. He must be at least six and a half feet tall, his dark, luscious hair accentuating his features, thick lashes, and hazel eyes, his skin tan. His lips are full. His body is thick, but even under his clothes, I can tell there isn’t an ounce of anything but muscle. DeLuca is a wall of marble and intimidation. My eyes land on his, and that's when I see I'm not the only one perusing the other from head to toe.

His too are eating me alive with wanton lust. The things he’s thinking of doing to me are very evident in his stare. My captor is breathtaking, and I know now more than ever how much danger I'm in. Who is this man, and how did he find me?

“You're going to kill me, aren't you?” I can't help but ask, because as devilishly handsome as he is, he’s scary—intimidatingly scary.

“No,” he says quickly, bluntly.

“Then why am I here? Are you going to give me to someone else?” It's not a farfetched question, given the family I'm a part of and the state of the world.

He growls, “I would cut off the hands of any other man who’d dare to take you away from me. Don't ask such foolish questions.”

I step back a bit, his anger coming off him so fiercely I feel the burn. “I'm sorry. I'm just afraid. I don't know why I'm here or what you plan to do. Is it a ransom you’re after? My husband will pay you any amount.”

Moments ago, I welcomed the idea of him taking me away from the world I was in, but seeing him, seeing how undeniably dangerous he is—regardless of how irresistible he may seem, how arousing his very presence is—I'm truly afraid.

“Food. Now,” he barks his order, and I jump. My words have made him angrier. It’s probably best I learn to stay quiet if I want to make it out of this painlessly.

Grabbing me by the arm, he pulls me toward the kitchen, and once there, he sets me on the counter, lifting me by my hips and placing me on the cold marble with a firm look that tells me not to move.

I don't say anything as he backs up slowly, watching to make sure I don't run or try to attack. Wrapping my arms around myself in a sad attempt at self-protection and comfort, I drop my head.

His deep voice makes my core clench when he tells me gently, “Don't ever lower your head, Arabella. You're too beautiful a woman to cower to anyone.” The demeanor he's been holding cracks just a bit, showing me yet another glimpse of kindness. But when I lift my head and give him a weak smile, his stone-cold wall reappears, icing me out. I watch him move around the kitchen, grabbing ingredients from the fridge and cabinets to cook something.

I would tell him I'm too afraid to eat, but I decide against it. Silence might mean the difference between the “easy way” and the “hard way.”

My captor cooks, but his awareness of me is very much alive. Watching me from the corner of his eyes to make sure I'm still not planning to make any sudden moves. The house is cold; even with the stove going in the kitchen, I begin to shiver.