BEHIND THE FACADE R18

And you're Mine.

MIA'S POV

As I stood frozen, listening to Flynn's receding footsteps followed by the rest of the men, my ragged breathing slowly steadied. The room, once a refuge, now beckoned exploration. My gaze roamed, drinking in the familiar contours. This room echoed Malcolm's sanctuary – same sleek lines, same minimalist elegance. The same calming scent of sandalwood wafted through the air.

But subtle differences whispered secrets. Malcolm's room had a statement piece, a stunning crystal chandelier. Here, a floor-to-ceiling window dominated the space, its curtains elegantly tied back. The furniture, too, shared similarities – same plush carpet, same ergonomic chair – but this room's chair was upholstered in rich, burgundy leather.

My footsteps echoed as I approached the window. The city skyline stretched out, a breathtaking view. I wondered who owned this space, and why it felt so familiar. My mind whirled, connections forming. Who shared Malcolm's refined taste? A friend? A family member?

I wandered, tracing the room's perimeter. Every step revealed more parallels. Same earthy color palette, same abstract art pieces. A stunning, hand-blown glass vase adorned the coffee table, its delicate curves reflecting the light.

But the walk-in toilet, tucked away in a corner, differed. Its door, slightly ajar, seemed an invitation. My curiosity piqued.

A voice, low and smooth, drifted out. The man from this morning. It's his voice.

"...or it'll be costly. You understand?" His tone dripped with menace.

I froze, my heart racing. He cursed, slamming his fist against the counter. The sound made me jump. He hung up, and another call entered. His voice grew heated again.

"Find her before Malcolm does. We must not lose her," I thought, my mind reeling. What relationship did my kidnapper have with Malcolm? Were they allies or enemies?

The kidnapper's voice grew louder, his curses echoing through the toilet.
"I don't pay you to fail! Get it done!"

My ear leaned closer to the door, my breathing suspended.

Who was he talking to? And what did they want from me?

I slowly pushed the door open, my kidnapper's back view unfolding before me. His long hair, dark and sleek, cascaded down his spine, eerily reminiscent of Malcolm's signature style. Water droplets clung to his skin, glistening like tiny diamonds. His wet skin gleamed in the soft light, accentuating the definition of his muscular back.

His broad shoulders tapered to a narrow waist, the towel precariously clinging to his hips. The terrycloth fabric strained against his sculpted physique, threatening to unravel at any moment. His latissimus dorsi muscles flexed as he gestured, their ridges visible beneath his smooth skin. A delicate trickle of water slid down his spine, tracing the path of his vertebrae.

His skin was bronzed, a warm, golden hue that hinted at a life spent under the sun. The muscles of his upper back rippled beneath his skin as he moved, their contours sharply defined. His trapezius muscles swept upward, framing his neck and accentuating his sharp jawline. A few stray droplets clung to the base of his neck, sparkling like tiny jewels.

As he spoke into the phone, his voice low and commanding, his muscles flexed and relaxed. His body language exuded confidence, power. His shoulders squared, his posture assertive. Yet, despite his formidable presence, a sense of vulnerability clung to him, perhaps due to the towel's precarious hold.

My gaze lingered, tracing the lines of his back. Who was this man? Why did he seem so familiar? And what connection did he share with Malcolm? Questions swirled in my mind, but one truth stood out – this man was dangerous.