Hunger woke her.
Sunlight sliced through the gap in the heavy curtains, blindingly bright. Della blinked, disoriented. For a second, she thought she was back in the trailer. Then she saw the high ceilings and the expensive art. Reality crashed down on her.
The door clicked.
"Lunch is served, Miss," Henderson's voice came from the hallway.
Della sat up. She was still wearing the bathrobe. She tightened the belt and walked to the door. It was unlocked.
She followed the smell of food to the dining room.
Darius was there.
He sat at the head of a long, mahogany table. He was wearing grey sweatpants and a fitted t-shirt. He looked domestic, almost normal, if you ignored the predator stillness in his posture.
He was reading something on a tablet. A cup of black coffee sat near his hand.
Della stopped in the doorway.
"Sit," he said without looking up. "Eat."
Della walked to the chair set for her. A plate of steak and roasted vegetables waited. It smelled heavenly, which made her angry.
"Why am I here?" she asked, remaining standing. "What do you want?"
Darius swiped a finger across the tablet. He finally looked at her. "You saw my face. You're insurance."
"I told you I won't tell anyone!" Della gripped the back of the chair. "I'll go to the FBI if you keep me here!"
Darius laughed. It was a short, dry sound. "The FBI? Half of them are on my payroll. The other half are too scared to look in my direction."
Della's stomach dropped. He wasn't bragging. He was stating a fact.
"How much?" she tried. "I don't have money, but..."
"I have more money than God," Darius interrupted. "You have nothing I need. Except your silence. And your presence ensures that."
"Then let me go!"
Darius stood up. He moved with that terrifying grace. He walked around the table until he was standing directly behind her.
He placed his hands on the back of her chair, boxing her in. He leaned down, his mouth inches from her ear.
"You are a temporary amusement," he whispered. The vibration of his voice traveled down her spine. "When I'm bored, you leave. Not before."
Della stood frozen. She could smell soap and tobacco on him. He was close enough to touch, close enough to hurt.
"Eat," he commanded, pulling back. "If you faint, Vance will put you on an IV. And I don't think you want him touching you again."
Della sat down. She picked up her knife and fork. Her hands were steady now. Rage had replaced the fear.
She cut a piece of steak and put it in her mouth. She chewed mechanically.
Darius watched her eat. His gaze was heavy, intense.
Henderson entered the room. "Sir, Mr. Wiggins is here."
Darius nodded. He picked up his tablet. "Don't leave the apartment. Sensors will trigger."
He walked out.
Della dropped her fork. She listened to his footsteps fade.
She looked at the steak knife in her hand. It was sharp. Serrated. A weapon.
She looked at the camera in the corner of the ceiling. She looked at the two large men standing by the elevator.
She put the knife down. Not today. Brute force wouldn't work against a man who owned the FBI.
She needed to use the one thing he didn't know she had. Her brain.
