Page 62 of Breaking Rosalind
CESARE
I gaze down at Rosalind’s slumbering form. She’s beautiful when she’s not running that smart mouth, with plump lips the shade of damsons, thick lashes, high cheekbones, and a pert nose.
Her mahogany hair spills across the leather platform like dried blood with tresses curling toward her perfect breasts and nipples that look like they’ve been dipped in Chianti.
Last night, the muscle relaxant wore off a lot faster than expected, and she broke out of the zip-ties and freed her ankle from the spreader bar. She was about to liberate the other when I injected her with a sedative.
I kept her drugged and bound for the rest of the journey back to Alderney Hill and into the estate. Now, she’s in the new playroom, where my furniture was moved into a basement room beneath the mansion.
Escaping won’t be easy, and locating her will be near impossible. An intruder would have to find our wine cellar, work out which of the barrels is a hidden entrance, and then navigate a maze of hallways protected by biometric security doors.
Rosalind is trapped.
Leaning close, I inhale her sweet scent and scowl. Why must she smell like magnolias? The earthy combination of citrus and rose never fails to heat my blood to anger.
My fingertips trail down the pulse point on her neck, feeling its steady beat. I study the patch of skin on the side of her breast where I carved my initials, finding it only raised and reddened. Rosalind must have healed the incision in the brief time we spent apart, using an advanced form of medical technology I’m eager to learn.
“What secrets do you hold, pet?” I ask her unconscious form. I can’t wait to unravel her, piece by delicious piece.
I grin, my chest inflating with satisfaction. This powerful little creature is mine. Mine to possess, mine to break, mine to shape into my perfect toy. Rosalind will appease my darkest desires and succumb to my every whim. I will wear down her spirit, turn her into my blank slate, and build her up to fulfill every depraved fantasy.
After attaching each of her fingers in a steel hand trap and securing her wrists with rigid handcuffs, I check my phone, which hasn’t stopped buzzing with alerts since I arrived.
It’s a text from the burner phone I gave Miranda:
What was that about?
Cesare, what’s happening?
Where did you take my sister?
Why were the police shooting at our car?
Cesare?
My heart sinks, and my lips tighten. If Rosalind had come alone as I had ordered, I would have returned Miranda to Tourgis Academy unaware and un-traumatized. With a sigh, I tap out a message.
It’s not what it looks like. Your sister’s friend ruined what should have been a romantic surprise by ramming into a police car.
Dots appear on the screen.
Britt said I was in danger.
My brow furrows, and I type:
From who?
She types back:
You. She says you want to hurt us both.
My lip curls. This Britt character needs to watch her mouth.
Did I hurt you?
She replies:
No. I had the best time.