Chapter 4 Catch Me If You Dare

RYLAN'S POV

"She's gone?"

My heart slams into my ribs like a battering ram. I whip around, the room already empty-her scent still clinging to the air, warm and wild and hers.

"MOVE!" I roar, shoving past my stunned guards stationed outside the bedroom. Their eyes go wide as I tear through the hall like a storm. A flash of movement catches my eye, downstairs, a blur of soft limbs and tangled hair.

"Nobody touches her!" I bark before anyone dares lift a finger.

"Where is she-" one of them starts.

"She's fast," Marco wheezes behind me.

"She's mine," I snarl, muscles coiled as I chase her.

All I see is her-like lightning cutting across the sky. She leaps over a low wall, skirts the edge of the rooftop, unafraid. Unhinged.

Then as she runs out the back door, it's either she doesn't see the pool in time, or she can't stop in time because she slips.

Her scream pierces the air-and the next second, she's gone, submerged under the water with a loud splash.

Everything goes still.

My chest implodes.

"Anya!"

Without thinking, I leap after her into the pool, not caring that I'm dressed in a suit, not caring that it might be cold, just thinking about her.

The world shatters into ice and water and soundless panic. The pool is deeper than I remember, the water knife-cold against my skin. I dive, eyes wide, searching there.

Her body is sinking like a dropped petal.

I grab her waist and haul her up. Her arms hang limp. Her skin is bone white, lips tinged blue, hair coiling like seaweed around her face.

No. No, no, no.

I drag her onto the stone ledge, collapse to my knees beside her, water streaming from our bodies.

"Anya," I whisper, pressing two fingers to her throat. Faint. Almost nothing.

I pump her chest, willing for her to wake up, but she's still unresponsive and cold.

I have to think and move fast!

Without thinking about it, I tilt her head back and press my mouth to hers.

Although this isn't how I wanted our lips to touch for the first time. But none of that matters right now.

One. Two. Three. I press into her chest. Again. And again. Water sputters from her lips but she doesn't move.

Come on, Piccola. Fight me like you've been doing since you saw me.

I place my lips on hers again to pump air into her, when suddenly, her lips move against mine. Soft. Desperate. Her hands claw at my shirt. Her lips are cold but hungry, like she's gasping for life through me. The kiss goes straight to my groin and I feel myself harden almost painfully from the sweet press of her mouth on mine.

Suddenly-she coughs, hard, hacking up water. Her chest heaves. Her eyes fly open, feral and wide.

And then all of a sudden, I feel it –

SLAP! On my left cheek.

Leave it to Anya Coal to have a near death experience and wake up fighting.

"Get off me!" she screams, coughing, eyes blazing.

I stare at her, stunned. "You're alive."

"You kissed me!"

"I saved you."

"You kidnapped me!"

"You were given."

"You're completely deranged!"

"I've been called worse." My voice is low, a rasp of adrenaline and something else I won't name.

She's trembling, wet and furious and shivering on the stone. Her shirt clings to her skin like a second skin. Water drips from her chin down her chest. I can see the shape of her breast, how they jiggle and move with her every movement. Her nipples press against the soaked fabric. Her eyes flash like lightning.

I need to dry her off before she catches pneumonia out here. Without saying a word, I scoop her into my arms.

"Put me down!" she yells, beating at my chest with fists that barely sting. "Put me down, you psychotic-"

"You'll catch a cold."

"I'd rather freeze to death than marry you!"

I glance down at her as I carry her back toward the open doors, my lips twitching despite myself.

"Tough luck, gattina," I murmur. "The dress is already tailored."

I scoop her into my arms before she can argue. She writhes, slippery and wet, but she's no match for my grip. Her bare legs kick against my hip, and the soaked cotton shirt clings to her body like second skin, translucent and sinful.

"Put me down, psycho!"

"I'd prefer 'hero,'" I mutter, tightening my hold.

She glares daggers, water dripping from her lashes like angry tears. Her fists beat weakly at my chest. I ignore them. She's cold and shaking, her lips tinged with blue, and I'm not letting her freeze just to satisfy her misplaced pride.

I carry her back through the hallway, my men part like shadows, too stunned or smart to intervene. Good. She's still trembling against me, but her heartbeat is strong, frantic like a rabbit's.

Inside the lounge, I lower her onto the velvet chaise gently, like she might break. She hits the cushions with a wet plop, then scrambles upright, towel clutched to her chest like armor.

The fury in her eyes could burn Rome to the ground.

"Tell them to stop staring at me like I'm about to explode," she snaps, voice still ragged.

I glance over my shoulder and give the order, and my men vanish like mist.

"Better?"

She glares, drawing the towel tighter around herself. Her teeth chatter slightly, but she tries to cover it with attitude.

"You know," she says, "if you weren't such a raging asshole, I could be your head of security."

I raise an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"I dodged all your guys," she says smugly. "Except the pool. That was rude."

Despite myself, I smirk. "Duly noted. I'll take this as your formal application for head of security."

She shifts, her bare legs curling beneath her, damp hair trailing across her shoulders in tangled ribbons. Her chest rises and falls under the towel, and I have to look away before I forget this is about survival and not seduction.

"I mean seriously," she mutters, "you couldn't just... ask me out? Bought me a drink? Said, 'Hey, I'm the Italian Devil. Wanna go for gelato?'"

"Would you have said yes?"

"Hell no."

"Still," she says after a beat. "Kidnapping is a little extra. Even for a mafia don."

"I'm Italian. We do everything extra."

She snorts, and it's the most perfect sound I've heard in weeks.

"That explains the ego. And the suit."

"You like the suit."

"I hate the suit."

Liar.

She shifts again, brushing wet strands from her cheek. Her fingers tremble.

"What's your deal, anyway?" she asks. "You some kind of mafioso Batman? One second you're pulling me out of a pool like Baywatch, the next you're talking about ownership like this is some twisted version of The Bachelor."

"I'm not the Bachelor," I say, crouching beside her. "I'm the prize."

She snorts. "You're something, alright."

I reach out and gently brush a wet curl from her cheek. She freezes. Her breath hitches, but she doesn't pull away.

"Call the doctor," I say, not turning from her. I know my men are eavesdropping from the hall.

A shuffle of feet. Then silence.

"You need warm clothes. And rest."

She stiffens as I rise and walk to the closet. I pull out one of the outfits I had prepared for her-yes, prepared. I always plan ahead.

"Change," I say, tossing the bundle onto the arm of the chaise.

"I'm not stripping in front of you."

"I'll turn around. If you promise not to run again."

"Don't tempt me."

I give her my back, MY shoulders rigid as I begin peeling off my soaked suit jacket. It hits the floor with a splat, followed by the slick sound of buttons slipping free. My shirt clings like a second skin, but I strip it off anyway, revealing my scarred torso to the firelit room.

Behind me, silence.

Then a slow, low whistle.

"Is this... the wedding rehearsal?" she teases, voice pitched with mock innocence.

I glance over my shoulder. She's watching me, wide-eyed, the towel still wrapped tight, but her gaze is hungry. Curious.

I step closer, half-naked and dripping. Her breath stuttersand I see her eyes cut to the door very quickly.

"Try to run again, Piccola," I murmur, voice husky, dark with heat, "and I'll cuff you to my bed and make sure you can't use your legs from how bad they'll be shaking."

She opens her mouth as though to retort but winces, clutching her stomach. Her skin goes pale again.

"Shit."

I scoop her up as she moans against my chest. She's so close I can count her freckles.

"I can't believe your face is the last thing I'll see before I die..." she whispers.

I glance down. Her lashes are fluttering, her lips tinged with color, but barely. She's trying to be funny. Trying to pretend she's not falling apart in my arms. "At least now there'll be no wedding," she adds faintly, eyes slipping closed.

"You're not dying," I growl, too harsh. "Don't be dramatic."

"I'm not being dramatic," she murmurs. "I'm bleeding."

And then I see it.

A slow, spreading bloom of red against the white towel wrapped around her body.

It takes a full second to register.

Then my heart stops.

Blood.

On her towel.

Ice slides into my veins, and everything inside me turns to glass. Every nerve in my body goes cold.

No, no, no-

Before I can say anything else, she collapses entirely onto the bed, her head rolling to the side, hair fanned out like a halo. She's too pale. Her skin is clammy. Her breathing shallow.

My chest aches so hard I can barely breathe.

"Doctor!" My voice rips out like a gunshot. "Now!"