Page 78 of Breaking Rosalind

Rosalind thinks I would succumb to her transparent taunting. My blood simmers at her manipulation, and my heart rages at her insinuation that I’m a burden to the family. I grind my teeth, forcing in ragged breaths to maintain my cool.

“Months of letting Leroi fuck me resulted in nothing. He was too much of a professional to drop his guard. You, on the other hand, were so easy to manipulate?—”

My free hand wraps around her throat, making her gasp. The tray I left on her stomach falls to the floor with a clatter, but I pay it no mind.

I tighten my grip, my fingers digging into her soft flesh, wanting to squeeze out all her lies. Wanting to stop her from looking so fucking smug. Rosalind’s eyes blaze with a flicker of triumph that confirms my suspicions.

“How can I believe a word you say, when it’s all designed to anger me into violence?” I snarl, holding back the force of my fury. “You want me to trip up, and I won’t give you the satisfaction.”

When her features even out into that cold mask, I know she’s hiding her disappointment.

I step back and release my grip around her throat.

“Next time you try to incite me to anger, it won’t be you I punish.”

Her breath hitches as she catches the implication that I’ll hurt Miranda, but I’m past giving a shit. I walk toward the sink for a mop and bucket to clear up the mess.

This is the last time I’ll allow Rosalind to slither under my skin.

THIRTY

ROSALIND

My heart pounds loudly enough to burst my eardrums, and I’m breathing hard, still shaken by the force of Cesare’s rage. Maybe taunting him about his weaknesses was a step too far. Instead of inciting him to get angry enough to make a mistake, I made him self-reflect.

Shit. This over-emotional psycho is evolving.

The sound of running water turns my attention to the right-hand corner of the room, where Cesare fills a bucket. Of course, he cleans his own dungeon. Any sane person would balk at the sight of a woman being held against his will.

Do his brothers know I’m here? Does Leroi? The answer to both questions is probably yes, considering it was Leroi who passed on information about Miranda.

Miranda.

I squeeze my eyes shut and exhale my pent-up tension. Britt moved her to the safety of our secret hideout. It’s only a matter of time before she takes my girl overseas, where any of my enemies can’t reach, including Cesare and Gunther.

Now that I haven’t returned to work, Gunther will probably sniff around Tourgis Academy for Miranda. He’ll work out a way to send me a warning to keep the firm’s secrets or make her pay the price.

Britt is smart. She knows how to hide Miranda. At least that’s what I thought. How the hell is Miranda still in contact with Cesare? Britt should have confiscated her phone.

Cesare approaches the bondage table, his menacing presence breaking me out of my thoughts. Without another word, he picks up the pieces of broken plates and sets them on the tray.

My stomach growls, and I shift uncomfortably within the leather restraints, wondering if he’ll make me eat the spilled yogurt.

The mingled scents of dairy and ripe fruit invade my senses and flood my mouth with saliva. I swallow, my insides rioting for food. I know it won’t last. Every time we went through survival training, it would take seventy-two hours for the hunger pangs to disappear. After that, fasting is a breeze.

He moves the tray to the door, picks up the mop and dips it in the bucket. In moments, the delicious scent is overtaken by the sharp tang of cleaning solution. Cesare cleans the mess in silence, his methodical movements almost meditative.

I follow his actions with a strange mix of fear and fascination, wondering how he’ll break the silence and how he’ll punish me for my defiance.

My fingers try to curl within the splits, but the leather bites into my skin, securing each digit to the metal exoskeleton. There’s no room for escape with each strap so rigid and thick with zero give.

Giving up on the futile effort, I study Cesare’s features, but all I find is a mask of concentration. Is he replaying my last rant? Is he recalibrating his approach to break my spirit? The silence between us thickens until it takes on a solid form and pushes down on my chest.

Stop this.

In a captivity situation, the hostage must balance introspection with awareness. The hostage must never maintain a psychological dependence on the captor or risk forming an emotional bond.

I turn my thoughts inward, recalling an old academy lecture on the survival rule of three: