Page 9 of Captive Souls

“But it seems that there is another prize in the Matthews family.” He buttoned and unbuttoned his jacket, his long, manicured fingers moving fluidly.

His words were meant to be charming, I was sure. And along with the obvious wealth he flaunted, the air of power thatthreatened danger, they might’ve been charming to a younger, more naïve woman.

But I was not charmed.

I smiled tightly, fingering my amethyst ring on my left hand. “I’m not sure that being called a prize is the compliment you intend it to be.” I was unable to be pleasant, to tread carefully even though I knew I should. My mouth tended to get away from me. Most especially when rich men referred to me as an object, one they presumed could be bought. Or stolen. “I’m a woman. Not a soft toy in an arcade game. I can’t be won. Or owned.” My voice was firm, bordering on hostile.

It was meant to repel this man, urge him to move on to easier prey. Less difficult. Men didn’t like difficult women. They always said they wanted strong, complex partners, but they merely wanted a plaything they could control, a voice they could snuff out.

This man screamed that he wanted a docile, submissive woman who knelt at his feet and didn’t dare say a word against him.

Surprisingly, he didn’t sneer or frown. His face was blank for a second before he chuckled.

The sound vibrated in my bones, and not in a good way.

“Not to be won or owned,” he repeated, almost to himself. “I like that.” He leaned in so our bodies almost brushed. I held my breath.

“But I’ll look forward to proving you wrong. You will be won. And owned.”

The statement was ridiculous, considering we’d only exchanged a few words. It was overly intimate, cocky and just … wrong.

It took everything in me not to bite out something else—obviously, my snark did not deter him, it interested him. I didn’tflinch away either. There was no need to show weakness since that would likely excite him too.

I held my ground, looked him in the eyes and tried to communicate that I would not be worth his while.

After a few tense moments that felt like eons, he stepped back, straightening his suit and smiling at me. The expression was slick, satisfied, somehow victorious, as if he knew something I didn’t.

“I’ll be seeing you, Piper Matthews,” he promised.

Then he was gone.

“Not if I see you first,” I muttered.

I didn’t even find out his name until later. Stone De Luca.

Admittedly a badass name.

But it didn’t sway me, not even with the knowledge of his vast wealth from Daisy, who had urged me to go on the date with him after he sent a designer dress, roses and a note with a time and place to meet him.

To her, the gesture was romantic, right out of one of her romance novels.

To me, it was controlling, possessive and waved every red flag in the book.

I sent the dress back—which had Daisy almost in tears, as she worshiped at the altar of couture—with a polite note saying I was busy.

I’d hoped it was enough.

There was a little voice inside of me telling me it wasn’t. That for whatever reason, this man eyed me as a prize, and that he was used to winning.

And it didn’t stop. There were more lavish gifts, more invitations. Phone calls. Enough to make me sick.

And it did. I’d spent days unable to eat, sleep, my body tense, feeling as if I was essentially being stalked.

I’d done what I thought was the most logical thing in an admittedly crazy situation. I’d said yes to a dinner so I could speak to him face-to-face and gently explain that I wasn’t interested.

I didn’t wear the dress he sent, yet another one. But it was lovely. Blood-red, buttery fabric that I just knew would fit me like a glove. And the shoes. Red-soled, leather, delicate straps crisscrossing up my thighs. Sky high. They’d be uncomfortable. Same with the dress. Beautiful but constricting. Made to contain me.

I didn’t bother to think about how he’d known my sizes. It was too scary.