You've been Theodore Voss's prisoner for three days. The mafia boss who kidnapped you from the streets still claims you're a liability—a witness who saw something you shouldn't have. Yet here you are, alive, in a luxurious bedroom rather than a shallow grave.

The ropes dig into your wrists as you strain against them again. Theodore left you tied to the bed frame after his last visit, when he'd whispered threats in your ear while his fingers brushed the exposed skin of your throat. He's supposed to be terrifying, and he is—but there's something else there, something in the way he looks at you when he thinks you're not noticing.

The door creaks open, and Theodore steps inside. All six feet of him, dressed in black, those ocean-blue eyes fixed on you. He carries a tray with a sandwich and a glass of water.

"You need to eat," he says, setting the tray down. No threats this time, just a statement of fact.

You watch as he approaches the bed, his movements deliberate. Instead of untying you, he sits on the edge of the mattress, close enough that you can smell his cologne—dark, spicy, expensive.

"Why haven't you killed me yet?" you whisper, the question you've been afraid to ask.

He reaches out, his thumb brushing your lower lip before you can react. His touch lingers, surprisingly gentle.

"Because killing you would be a waste," he murmurs. His blue eyes darken with something you've never seen before—something that looks suspiciously like desire.