The fact that he assumes I’m attracted to her has me worried. Someone must have said something to give him that impression, because there's no way he knows me well enough to make that assumption by himself. Maybe one of his men has seen me eyeing her in the past, because God knows I've probably done it. I need to nip this in the bud before it goes any further.

“A pretty face is just a pretty face, you should know this better than anyone,” I say, keeping my expression serious. His face sours at my words.

Izzie, Frank's wife, had to be taken care of because Stevie had her followed and it turned out she worked for the Moores. My uncle didn't seem too broken-up about it, but who knows? I think, more than anything, his pride was wounded.

“That it is,” Stevie adds, as if he read my thoughts. Frank keeps his eyes locked to mine, searching for something. I hold his gaze, giving nothing away. Seemingly satisfied, he slides the papers my way across his desk, pointing with his fingers toward them. I take the papers, hoping my fingers don’t tremble, even though I read this over and over the night before.

Unidentified skeletal remains. Wedding rings. A red toy car. I read the words. I repeat them in my head so many times I start to feel sick.

“This is who she is,” he finally says, gesturing to the report. I nod, because I know what he's saying. She's a Moore, and they're poisonous snakes. “I expect you'll handle it when the time comes.”

“Yes,” I say, but my voice falters. I clear my throat. “You have nothing to worry about; I'll take care of it.”

* * *

I don't know why I knock on her door before I unlock it. She's nowhere in sight but I hear the shower running. I put the bag of takeout down on the bedside table, and then sit in the chair in the corner.

I scan the familiar room. Nothing looks out of place, but I'm sure she turned it upside down trying to either find a way out, or something else to attack me with. It pissed me off this morning, but now I'm just amused. I'd never have thought of the mirror.

A couple of minutes later she walks out wearing a silky bathrobe, every curve of her body perfectly outlined in it, the hem reaching just under her ass. I should have gone and got her the clothes myself, because I'd never have picked out something so revealing. Her wet hair is hanging all the way to her waist. It’s a tangled mess of ebony as she runs her fingers through it, and then twists it up and over her shoulder. My fingers itch to follow hers.

Her back is turned to me and for a second I just take in the elegant way she moves, her feet making no sound as she makes her way across the room. My eyes trail up her toned calves and higher to the hem of the robe, hungry for more.

She stills for a moment when she sees the food, but she still doesn't acknowledge me at all. She unties the sash, letting the material fall down her shoulders. My eyes linger on the curve of her neck, and then follow the robe as it slips further down, revealing a body that could bring a man to his knees. She trails her fingers down her side, her every move so deliberate. I can almost feel her soft flesh under my fingertips as my eyes follow the path of her hands.

I hate what it does to me. I should never think of her body as something so perfect. I know there’s a reason I should just stand up and walk out of the room, but for the life of me I can’t remember what it is right now. I was always forgetful of things that matter in her presence.

I'm hard in less time than it takes me to get up and walk over to her. Somehow I find myself standing behind her as I tangle my fingers into her hair, pressing myself into her back. She spins around, placing her palms on my chest, and pins me with her icy blues, unashamed that all of her is flush against my body, the only thing separating us my clothes. Her hand fists my shirt, her gaze unwavering from mine. I recognize the look she’s giving me, daring me. Go on, she says with those eyes. Touch me.

I want to touch her, so bad.

I relax my fist in her hair, then clear my throat and avert my gaze, hating myself for this moment of sudden weakness. I inspect the white wall to my right while she releases me and walks over to the bed and puts some clothes on.

Game over.

“Devon.” My name on her lips grates on my nerves. It’s the first time I hear her say it. She sounds a lot more composed than she did last night and this morning. Either she's putting up a front, or she actually realized her theatrics won’t get her far. I wouldn’t expect anything less from her.

“Leighton,” I say, trying to put some venom in it, but even to my own ears it doesn’t sound like a curse. I shift on my feet uncomfortably, and her eyes snap to my crotch. My erection is still clearly visible, and draws a satisfied little smirk on her lips. I walk over to the door and open it to leave.

“It’s safe,” I say, pointing to the food on the bedside table before I walk out and lock her in again. I lean my forehead against the coolness of the door and pull my phone out of my pocket.

“Hales,” I say after she picks up. “I really need your help right now.”

I’m staying the hell away from this room.

LEIGHTON

I can’t stop the smirk that curves my lips. Devon may try to appear unaffected by me, but I know otherwise.

I walk toward the food he brought in: a club sandwich and fries. I don’t ask myself why exactly I believed him the instant he told me the food was safe, I just have a feeling that it is. I try to pace myself, but my hunger takes over, and I end up inhaling the whole thing. I sip the water, and then put it down, exhaling heavily.

What next? I am so damn bored in here, there are only so many hours that I can sleep and plot revenge. I wish I had a book, a music player . . . something. I’m going crazy. I stretch out my arms above my head. I realize that I need to stay active somehow. I know that the second I get the chance, I’m going to run, and I’m going to need to keep my strength up.

My mind drifts back to Devon. Aside from scaring me to death last night with that knife, he hasn't done me any harm. George hit me, not Devon. I know that doesn’t mean Devon isn’t planning something. I’ve quickly realized he’s no choirboy, but at least it gives me a little hope.

Watching him over the years, hearing rumors about him, I’ve learned a thing or two about Devon. When he turned eighteen and his uncle finally gave him more familial obligations everyone expected him to fail, proclaiming him the spoiled, good-for-nothing nephew. For some reason, he was never in the business before, at least, not in a way anyone knows about. Now he’s both feared and respected, running their operations without a hitch.

I never doubted him for a second.

And women—they love him. I was always curious about why he's not much of a man-whore as his looks and position would allow him to be. He lets them down easy, politely, but he doesn’t engage them. Word is he likes quality, not quantity.

I try to keep the bitterness out of my thoughts. If he weren't keeping me locked up in this stupid room, I'd almost respect him.

I take the hairbrush from the bathroom and run it through my hair, not wanting to deal with the inevitable knots if I were just to leave it. The side of my face still hurts, but not as much. At least that’s what I try to tell myself. The truth is I’ve never been hit before. I run my hand gently down from my temple to my jaw. Since he took the mirror, I can’t even check to see how it looks, or if it’s getting any better.

My dad would flip out if he saw me like this. They must be out looking for me by now. If anyone would notice I’m gone, it’s Dom. I wonder how long it will take him to find me, to figure out that George is a fucking traitor and that he’s planning something with the Andres.

I walk to the bed and sit down, tapping my foot on the ground. The silence is killing me. How long are they going to leave me like this? I should be grateful that I’m here, not locked up in the basement or getting tortured or killed, but I assume they’re going to try something eventually, so why wait? I really need to figure out their game plan. Is Devon the only one I will see? Or will there be others?

I hate this.

Not knowing.

Being at his mercy.

Being weak.

I squeeze my eyes shut and swallow hard. Hold it together, Leighton. I quickly wipe away the lone tear that drifts down my cheek. I refuse to let him see me like this, let him know that he made this of me.

I'm a Moore.

I’m sure as hell not going to make it easy for him.

* * *

Hours later, the door finally opens, and I am fully expecting Devon to walk through. Instead, a tall slim girl enters. I eye her warily, not knowing what to expect. She seems familiar somehow, but I can't put my finger on it.

Neither of us moves. She tucks her curly blonde hair behind her ear, her wide, blue eyes trained on me. She's wearing black jeans paired with a white blouse and black boots. Stylish, yet casual, and all designer. The floral scent of her perfume drifts through the room.

“You must be hungry,” she says in a soft voice as she places some food on the side table. She picks up the bag of trash from the last meal and puts it on the floor outside the door, pushing it further away with her foot. I think she's going to leave, but she comes back in, closing the door behind her and looking as if she wants to say something. My gaze rakes over her, sizing her up.

I could so take her.