Bound by my blood

Chapter five

Soft beams of sunlight filter through the gaps in the heavy curtains, casting streaks of gold across the rumpled bed. The warmth of the morning light grazes my skin, but it's the cold, unyielding metal around my wrist that truly wakes me.

A handcuff.

My breath catches as I tug my arm slightly, the metal clinking against the headboard. There's enough slack that it doesn't bite into my skin, but the weight of it is impossible to ignore.

Who the fuck had handcuffed me?

My head throbs viciously, a deep ache pulsing behind my temples. Waves of nausea roll through me, forcing me to squeeze my eyes shut. My throat is raw, my lips chapped, and my body screams for water.

I must have been drinking last night. Heavily.

Flashes of the night flicker through my mind in disjointed fragments- the warm burn of liquor, the smooth voice of the bartender, the press of hands, laughter spilling from my lips like honey. But after that... nothing.

"Fuck," I croak, my voice barely audible, my dehydration impossible to ignore.

The distant sound of running water hums in the background. The bathroom door is ajar, letting out wisps of steam, the faint scent of soap and musk drifting into the room.

My gaze shifts towards the source of the sound.

Vincenzo.

He stands beneath the cascading water, his broad back facing me. Droplets slide down the hard ridges of his muscles, tracing every sculpted line, disappearing into the dip of his spine. The sight alone makes my breath hitch. He lifts his arms to run his fingers through his soaked hair, the motion causing his back to flex, the muscles rippling like a work of art.

I should look away. I need to look away.

But I don't- at least, not until he moves slightly, and I realize he's about to turn around.

A gasp escapes me as I glance down at myself, suddenly hyper-aware of my state. My body is clad only in a pair of unfamiliar boxers and an oversized top that's ridden up to my waist.

What the hell happened last night?

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to grasp onto any memory, but my mind remains frustratingly blank. The water shuts off, and the heavy sound of footsteps approaches.

"Morning, pain in the ass," Vincenzo's voice rumbles through the quiet room, low and gruff from sleep.

I blink up at him innocently, my throat suddenly dry for an entirely different reason. He stands at the edge of the bed, droplets still clinging to his skin, trailing in slow, lazy paths down his abs. The towel sits dangerously low on his hips, barely clinging to his defined V-line.

I swallow thickly.

His lips quirk up in amusement as he clears his throat, clearly catching me staring, "see something you like?"

"Good morning," I say instead, forcing a smile, pretending my pulse isn't erratic, "can you take off this handcuff?"

Vincenzo tilts his head, lips twitching as he crosses his arms over his chest.

 "I don't know," he drawls, "I quite like the look of you like this. Helpless. It means you can't go off creating more trouble for me to deal with."

I roll my eyes.

"Of course you do, you horny freak," I mutter just loud enough for him to hear, "if you won't set me free, be useful and grab me some water and Advil before I die."

A chuckle rumbles from deep in his chest, the sound sending an uninvited shiver down my spine. 

"You know," he muses, retrieving a small key from the nightstand, "you're nothing like people describe you."

"And how's that?" I ask, rubbing my wrist once he unlocks me.

"Innocent. Quiet" He smirks.

I snort, "Clearly, they've never met me drunk."

He steps back, leisurely watching me as I sit up, wrapping the duvet around myself. His gaze is predatory, calculated, the weight of it making my skin prickle.

"If you're looking for that disgusting two-piece dress, stop," he adds casually, "I burned it the moment you threw it in the hamper. Along with your ruined thong."

My entire body flushes with heat.

"You what?" I squeak, horrified.

"It was a shame," he continues, ignoring my outrage, "I actually liked that thong."

I grab the blanket and throw it over my head, mortified.

His laugh is deep, rich, and far too amused. Within seconds, the blanket is ripped away, and he leans in close, his scent—warm, masculine, laced with faint traces of soap—surrounding me.

"Don't be shy now, love," he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, "you weren't last night."

Heat pools in my stomach, however, I force myself to scoff, "Is that why you felt the need to handcuff me?"

His smirk widens, "It was the only way I could control you."

I stiffen, something in his words sparking irritation, "maybe I don't like being controlled."

"That's too bad." His gaze sharpens, dark and full of challenge, "because you don't have a choice. I'm the boss here, and you will do as I say. When I say. If I tell you to jump, you ask how high, or you'll earn yourself a punishment."

A slow, mocking smile tugs at my lips, "Is that how you control your other whores?"

His expression darkens, but he doesn't respond.

Victory.

I roll over, stretching lazily, feigning indifference as he watches me like a predator tracking its prey. He moves to his wardrobe, tugging on a pair of boxers, completely unbothered by my blatant staring.

Fuck. If I had the option to lick whipped cream off his abs, I probably—

No. Stop thinking that.

I abruptly roll out of bed, landing on the floor with a loud thud.

"Smooth," Vincenzo drawls, amused as I crawl toward the bathroom door.

Grabbing the sink for support, I pull myself up and fill a glass of water, gulping it down in one go. My head still pounds, but at least I'm not dying of thirst anymore.

"Vincenzo, do you have Advil?" I ask, glancing over my shoulder.

He gestures to a small bag on the dresser. I rifle through it, pausing when I find a few not-so-legal substances among the medication. I ignore them, popping two painkillers dry.

I glance down at my attire, frowning. As comfortable as this is, I can't exactly show up to my final day of university in America in just boxers and an oversized shirt.

"I need a ride home before class," I inform him.

Vincenzo leans against the doorway, watching me with a knowing expression. 

"Put this on," he orders, tossing me my trench coat from last night.

I slip it on, rolling my eyes as he ushers me out of the hotel. I open my mouth to complain at the rapid pace but am cut off by him suddenly stiffening, his hand moving to his gun as we step out of the elevator into the parking garage. His eyes flick toward the stairwell, his body going rigid.

"What are you doing?" I frown.

He doesn't answer right away, his grip tightening on his gun. Before, in a low voice, he mutters, "Someone's watching us."

A chill runs down my spine.

We practically run to the limo, Vincenzo keeping his body between me and the women until he is pushing me into the limo. 

I peek through the limo's window as we pull away, and my stomach knots.

A tall woman stands by the stairwell, her sharp gaze locked onto us. She's stunning—dark, sleek hair, piercing eyes—but there's no mistaking the danger she radiates.

Beneath her fitted blouse, I spot the outline of two holstered guns.

And in her hand?

A camera.