Mila made it back to the bedroom on autopilot, her mind whirling as she tried to figure out what was going on.
Her legs felt like lead and her shoulder throbbed with every step that she took. It wasn't as bad as it had been, but there was still a hot, pulsing ache that radiated down her arm and up into her neck. The painkillers the doctor had given her were wearing off, and she could feel every stitch pulling against her skin.
She closed the door behind her and leaned against it for a moment, closing her eyes as she took in a deep breath.
It felt surreal.
A few days ago, she'd been in her studio apartment with next to nothing in her bank account, a list of bills that needed to be paid, and no job prospects to speak of. Now she was in a mansion, shot, kidnapped, and apparently employed by a man who probably had people killed for a living.
'Great life choices, Mila,' she sighed to herself.
Pushing off the door, she walked to the bed, enjoying the feeling of her bare feet sinking into the plush carpet.
If she was trapped here, then the only thing she could do was make the most of it.
Mila pulled the towel off and tossed it toward the chair. It missed and landed on the floor, but she didn't care enough to pick it back up.
Her shoulder screamed in protest, but lying on her back wasn't an option. Not with the stitches. Not with the pain.
Mila exhaled slowly and let her body sink into the mattress. God, she was tired. But it was more than just a lack of sleep tired. This one was one of those bone-deep, soul-crushing tired that made her feel like she could close her eyes and never wake up again.
Hell, even her hair was starting to hurt at this point. But no matter how hard she tried to force herself to relax, she body was refusing to cooperate.
Every time she closed her eyes and tried to let her mind go blank, but it didn't work.
Because all she could see was Dante standing in front of her, standing beside her, standing away from her. It didn't matter how much she tried to force her mind onto something else, it sprang right back to Dante and his hand at the base of her neck.
You're very good at lying.
He'd known. Of course he had known, it wasn't like she was able to control her heartbeat when his thumb was pressing down on it. Frigging Hell, he worked better than any lie detector test that the police had on hand.
And instead of calling her out, instead of threatening her or throwing her in a cell or whatever mafia bosses did to people who lied to them, he had offered her a job.
She still wasn't sure what to make of that, but lying here, in his house, in his bed, wearing nothing but a set of bedsheets that probably cost more than the GDP of a small country, she couldn't stop replaying the moment.
The way he'd looked at her, his eyes staring into her like he could read her very soul. Like he was trying to figure her out or like she was a puzzle he wanted to solve.
The way his hand had felt at the base of her neck...warm and firm in a way that should have scared her but didn't. His thumb had pressed against her pulse point, and she'd felt the heat of it spread through her entire body.
Like he was claiming something. Marking her as his.
Not to mention the way his voice had dropped when he'd said, You start tomorrow. It went low, almost gentle, in a way that made her realize that voices could be just as much of a turn-on as looks.
Mila pressed her face into the pillow and let out a soft groan.
Dante Falcone was going to be a problem.
Not because he was dangerous—though he obviously was.
Not because he was powerful—though he clearly had enough money and influence to make her disappear if he wanted to.
No.
He was going to be a problem because he was hot.
Stupidly, infuriatingly, impossibly hot.
And she couldn't stop thinking about him.
Here she was, lying in his mansion, in his bed, replaying the way he'd brushed that strand of hair away from her face like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Like he had every right to touch her.
And the worst part?
She'd liked it.
More than liked it.
She'd wanted him to keep touching her, wanted his hand to stay at the base of her neck with his thumb pressing against her pulse, his body close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him.
Mila shifted slightly, trying to find a position that didn't make her shoulder feel like it was on fire. It didn't work.
She exhaled shakily.
This was ridiculous.
She was attracted to a man who probably had more money then God, a man who'd kidnapped her, a man who knew she was lying and had decided to keep her close anyway.
Mila knew of wars with less red flags than what Dante had, but she didn't care. She understood what would happen if she fell for him. But red had always been her favorite color anyway.
And that was the truth. Being here—in this mansion, with him—didn't feel like a trap anymore. It felt like an opportunity.
She had a job now. A reason to stay close to him, and a way to earn money. Whether that heat she'd felt when he touched her was real or just her imagination running wild, it didn't matter. She was a big girl. She could deal with whatever life threw at her.
And if that meant spending more time around Dante Falcone, with his sharp cheekbones and his voice that sounded like smoke and whiskey and his hands that were too warm and too sure...
Well.
There were worse fates.
Mila let her eyes drift shut, her breathing evening out as exhaustion finally started to pull her under.
She couldn't wait for whatever tomorrow brought.