Page 64 of Breaking Rosalind
There’s probably a reason my brother didn’t lock this woman in the basement and torture her into signing over our stolen property. Benito must have convinced him to carry out some unnecessary and convoluted scheme.
I won’t interfere, but I’m intrigued.
Rising to my feet, I walk around an easel, finding a male figure sketched in faint charcoal with an oversized dick. I snort, wondering if Roman posed naked.
When movement sounds from the door, I walk back to the unconscious man, hook my arms beneath his pits, and drag him out through the door.
At the distinct squeaking of a trolley wheel, I release my quarry and straighten.
Sofia pushes a cart laden with covered bowls, plates, and silverware. Her eyes widen at the sight of Dominic’s battered face.
“Do I need to be worried?” she asks, her lips thinning.
“Not until I find out if he has any accomplices. Benito says he attacked her.” I nod in the direction of the pool house.
Her jaw hardens, and she glares down at Dominic with so much hatred that I raise my brows. “I knew that one was no good. I made him gnocchi yesterday, and he let it go to waste.”
“A travesty,” I mutter. “Don’t worry. I’ll punish him for wasting your fine cooking.”
Her features tighten, and she glances around as though checking that the coast is clear. My insides twist with unease. The only time she gets like that is when talking about my secret.
“He’s been calling the house, threatening to speak with Roman,” she says, her voice hushed. “If you keep ignoring him?—”
“I’ll take care of it,” I say.
Sofia purses her lips, knowing full well I won’t speak to that bastard. She’s about to launch into one of her lectures when I place a hand on her shoulder.
“Trust me. He won’t live long enough to tell Benito or Roman the truth.”
TWENTY-FIVE
ROSALIND
The first thing I think of when I awaken is Miranda. If Britt managed to escape, my daughter will be safe and stashed away where no one will ever threaten her safety.
I still don’t know what that twisted bastard did to my little girl. Her face was free of cuts or bruises, but who knows what damage he’s done to her psyche?
A ghost of a headache pounds at my temples. It’s the kind of pain that would slice through my nerves if it wasn’t muffled by drugs.
He must have administered painkillers after sticking me with that second needle. But why?
Keeping my eyes closed, I slow my breathing and assess the state of my body before alerting anyone that I’m conscious.
The air is mostly stale with hints of chemicals and leather, and there’s a weak fan blowing cool air against my skin. It tightens into goosebumps, telling me I’m still naked.
I turn my attention to my extremities. Each finger is attached to something rigid and metallic. From the way the digits stretch taut within their restraints, I’m guessing it’s the BDSM version of a splint.
Heavy leather straps encase the rest of my body, starting with one holding my neck, another across my shoulders, and more at strategic points along my torso and legs.
The pressure of the restraints is a constant reminder that Cesare has adapted. Any chances of him underrating my abilities are slim, considering I’m completely immobilized.
“I know you’re awake,” says that loathsome voice. “Your blood pressure just spiked.”
That’s when I realize one of the bands around my upper arm is a cuff to measure my BP. It was bad enough that he strung me up in a meat van and forced me to get aroused enough to lubricate his cavity searches. Now, the sick bastard is monitoring my vital signs.
He threads his fingers through my hair and twists, and my eyes snap open.
Cesare looms over me in a dimly lit room, illuminated by a flickering lightbulb. I have no doubt it’s there for dramatic effect.