26. Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Five
Alessandrio
M arco Galdano.
Marco ‘Hanged Man’ Galdano.
‘Deadman’ Galdano, if I have my fucking way this time. My hands wring the steering wheel. Olivia is a statue beside me, cut from marble, unmoving and stiff. I should have known De Luca would bring Galdano and prepared myself for our paths to cross once more. It was an oversight, and I let my emotions get the better of me. Understatement of the century . The way he looked at her—I roll my neck to avoid gouging holes in the leather of my steering wheel. She probably thinks my hands with the claws are horrible things, but if she knew what that hand coming towards her had done, what they are capable of? She would back out of our deal and accept the consequences, knowing they were better than finding out what a true monster could do to her.
“Understand my brother tasked me with protecting you,” I breathe, the sound cutting through the silence. “Asking you to trust me would be like asking me to trust you and we both know each is impossible. But trust this: my hate for that man and distrust for the Outfit far outweigh my dislike and distrust of you.”
“Who is he? The laughing man.” Her voice, barely a whisper, quakes.
“That… that is no man, but a fucking demon.”
She laughs dryly. Yeah, well, like recognizes like, and this time, one of us will not walk away. Emilio has been put on notice. Galdano and I have old scores to settle and anyone who gets between might just find themselves burnt. Olivia might think that my violence knows no bounds, that I am capable of anything given her situation, but Galdano’s depravity is beyond contemplation.
Tonight wasn’t a complete failure, however: she got the reaction I am sure Emilio wanted. Her face alone is hard to ignore, and the flicker of interest in De Luca’s eyes when he saw her made my chest seize in a way that was abhorrent. My response to Galdano was entirely unexpected, but watching that fucking thing reach for her, on top of De Luca’s interest? His hand will be ripped off before he touches her. Keeping my eyes on the road, I turn the sound system on. ‘I Hate Everything About You’ by Three Days Grace fills the car and I have to laugh at the irony as Matt Walst’s voice floods out from the speaker.
The tension continues as we arrive at the hotel, wiring the air with electricity and unsaid things. The elevator rises floor after floor. And when the doors part, Olivia storms out, and I allow myself momentary weakness to appreciate the sway of her hips as she drops the faun walk for something more purposeful and appealing, disappearing around the corner.
“Who are you?” a female voice reaches me.
Fuck.
The sound of it forces my feet to move faster and I round the corner, almost crashing into Olivia, who’s come to an abrupt halt. My eyes see what she sees, the woman standing in the centre of my living room.
“Who is she?” Monique points an accusatorial red taloned finger at Olivia.
“No one,” I breathe out, passing the statue of my faux fiancée and heading towards her.
She’s dressed as per my usual request: in deep red lingerie, her fake tits obscene above her tiny waist. Monique skillfully avoids looking directly at me, choosing instead to watch the woman behind us. I put myself in her line of sight, more so Olivia cannot see how Monique looks anywhere but at me.
“To my room, now.” It’s a soft command.
Monique shrugs, a smile curving her luscious lips as she turns on her heels and begins to move. The sight of her in a thong walking away usually sets my blood flaming, but not tonight, and I have a very distinct feeling as to why. I brace myself before facing Olivia, and when I do, I realize what shakes me about her—she is staring at me. She might have steel daggers in her eyes, but she meets my gaze unflinchingly, and that sets my blood flaming.
“You have an entertainment system in your room. The remote is in the side table draw, press power and the screen will lower from the ceiling. I suggest you put the volume on loud.” The smirk I attempt falls more into the realm of sneer and I turn my back on her.
I need to put distance between us. She is too unreadable like this, and the urge to put hands on her just to see a crack in her haughty face is so strong. Rolling my neck and taking a deep breath, I enter my room. Monique is on her phone laying across my bed and I press my back to the door under the guise of watching her as I wait to hear that clack of heels down the hall. It comes, and I’m barely breathing as her steps slow, just beyond the door before quickening once more and her door slams sharp in the silence.
Olivia is getting under my skin. There are too many elements to her and our situation to really pin point how she got there, but it’s a fucking problem for me and my cock. Monique couldn’t help. She was ferocious, bordering on rough as she ran her hand down my length while I closed my eyes and tried not to think. Olivia’s face, however, haunted me. It was equal parts reminder and temptation until I ground out that it would not work and Monique was all too happy to throw in the towel. Once her money was in her account, she slinked out without a backward glance. Hours later, I roll onto my stomach, growling with the memory, hand reaching for the little white bottle, lid already off as it waits for me. I pour some pills out before tossing them into my mouth and swallowing them dry.
The next morning my apartment is quiet and her door is closed when I emerge from my room, the fog of artificial sleep still clinging to my mind and limbs as I make my way down the hall. There are signs of life, however, just small things moved in my kitchen that tell me she has come and gone for food. I bypass the kitchen heading straight for the gym instead, but a sound stops me dead in my tracks before I turn the handle. Pressing my ear to the door, I listen. There is a mechanical noise emanating from behind it and the sound of heavy breathing. Feminine heavy breathing. Fuck no.
The door crashes off the wall with a bang as I enter. She looks like a deer caught in the headlights, as she flies off the treadmill skillfully landing as if she is prepared for this moment. I choke on my words, which never happens to me as my eyes sweep her. She’s panting, and my shirt is clinging to her in a way that makes my throat close up.
“What the fuck?” I rage to recover myself.
She looks between me and the treadmill, still breathing like she was midway through a marathon. I prowl toward her, toward the treadmill, its running belt still going. Olivia backs up, her bare feet stumbling as she moves to put the machine between us. My fist punches into the emergency stop as I glare across at her. Her breathing is loud, her hair piled on her head, a few wispy pieces around her face and neck clinging to the sweat there. Her own eyes travel down my neck. I track them as she tracks me, and I feel her gaze sliding across fur and muscle. Down. Down and down. Till those grey eyes snap back up to my own, pink tinging her cheeks.
“This is my space,” I snarl low, feeling mighty protective under her scrutiny.
Her mouth tightens, eyes narrowing a fraction. “I needed to run.”
For a moment, I am utterly perplexed. My eyes find the mileage on the treadmill. She was five miles in and moving fast. Was she doing this for fun?
“Why?” I don’t even know why I ask. I don’t particularly even care. All I want is her out of here.
She watches me, her teeth worrying that full bottom lip and I have to avert my eyes. She looks like a whole snack, coated in sweat, wearing my shirt, her cheeks pink and my mind plays with the image.
“It keeps me sane,” she whispers finally and despite my best effort to not look at her, I can’t ignore those words.
How many times have I searched for the antidote to a loud mind? When I was in my human form, it was far easier. Fucking was at the top of my list, closely followed by drinking and fighting. All to quiet the darkness that constantly threatened to send me off the edge. Many times, my father questioned my sanity. He tried to have me medicated, wanting me placid and easier to control. I think Emilio watched our battles and realized he would inherit a problem, seeming to have no solution when he took the reins. As I am, solutions have been harder to find.
We regard each other for long moments, the silence and tension stretching. No wonder I couldn’t get my rocks off with Monique. She is nothing like Olivia, and yet I despise the pull my body seems to have toward her.
“Finish, then,” I snarl, turning and leaving without a backward glance.
“I need another.” By another, she means my shirt dangling off a finger.
This is punishment, cruel and unusual. I do something women think men can’t and multitask: pry my eyes from her whilst simultaneously willing my dick to chill the fuck out. Both are a challenge when Olivia’s wrapped in a fluffy white towel, golden hair pinned up, knowing she’s naked beneath it all. God has it in for me, testing my restraint like this. Calm the fuck down. I continue my task of removing plates from the dishwasher, allowing it to distract me from the pleasing image of the woman across from me.
“Or, you could have someone actually provide me proper clothes?” That draws on my attention and I smirk.
“But you look so good in my shirt.” My words force the petulant look on her face away, softening her features with shock.
“I think I’d rather wear a towel then,” she snipes, recovering herself.
I shrug and continue what I was doing as she perches herself on a bar stool across from me. There is a momentary lull as I feel her eyes watching my every movement.
“Could I please have some food?” Her voice is soft and uncertain.
The words draw my eyes up, brow furrowing in surprise. I stop what I am doing immediately and walk to the fridge, opening it and gesturing inside.
“You never have to ask.” And she doesn’t. “I actually had Donatella replenish my fridge. She wasn’t sure what you like to eat, so I think she went overboard. I’m not your personal chef, so you can help yourself.”
Her eyes go from soft to hard, and I realize both are just as appealing. I return to what I was doing, watching her from the corner of my eye as she slides from the chair and rounds to the fridge. While she is assessing the inside, probably deciding what to eat, I allow my eyes to feast on her. She has great legs, and now I know why: they are runners’ legs. Curved with muscle from calf to thigh and I bank the image for later. With her hair up, the delicate expanses of her upper back and neck are exposed. I watch the points of her shoulder blades move as she removes things from my fridge. Shaking myself mentally, I return to my task. I can’t allow whatever this pull toward her is to let my guard down. She is not to be trusted until I am certain she is not a double agent. I listen to her movements, painfully aware of her entire being as we orbit each other in my kitchen.
“That was quite the run you did this morning.” I fold my arms across my chest, leaning back against the counter as she settles back onto a bar stool across from me.
“I love running,” she says simply.
“Why?” I want to know more about her.
“When you’ve been locked up in a high security boarding school since the age of five, you find a way to not lose your mind.” Fair enough.
“You’d think with the amount of money parents paid for their kids to go there, there would be lots of ways to encourage a bunch of extremely rich kids to remain sane.” At my words, she gives a knowing little smirk, as if to say I know nothing.
“Give them pony clubs, water polo tournaments and lacrosse teams. Nothing makes up for that feeling of abandonment. Not even the movie nights, onsite spa days, and the parties helped.”
“Were these school organized parties?” I question with my own knowing smile.
“Nope.” She shakes her head. “The Ruins were inherited by every incoming senior year.”
“The Ruins?”
“Ironwood land was owned by the Abbott family for generations. The Ruins were the original family cottage when they moved onto it. It’s basically a run-down shack now. The seniors spread rumours it was haunted to keep the younger groups away until they inherit it.” Her eyes get that glazed, distant look of someone lost in a memory.
“What did you rich kids get up to in there?” Her eyes narrow on me.
“You say rich kids like you weren’t one yourself.”
“ Touché, but Emilio and I were homeschooled,” I reply.
“Everything suddenly makes sense.”
“How so?”
“Your total lack of people skills,” she replies, mouth pulling into a smile.
I stall for a moment, my entire being going into neutral, not because of her words, but because of that smile. It’s fucking genuine. She’s sassing me and finding humor in her witty response.
“So how does growing up in a boarding school amount for your lack of people skills?” I shoot back, my own mouth twisting with wit.
“I happen to have incredible people skills, they just don’t extend to… to…” She pauses, humor draining from her face as she looks for the right word.
“To monsters?” Her eye widen as I fill in the blanks. “No need to be ashamed Olivia, I know what I am.”
“I was going to say Mafia men, because you were a man before this.” She gestures at me. “Weren’t you?”
“A man on the outside.” Her brow rises at my honesty.
My phone goes off with an incoming message, and I pull it from my pocket. My claws catch on the material in my distracted state as I continue to watch the woman across from me. Finally, I drag my eyes away and instantly regret it.
Lucia: Does Olivia need anything?
Lucia: You cannot have her showing up to dinner without a coat again. I can do some online shopping for her.
I should have seen this coming, but like everything else in my life right now, it’s blindsided me. My claws tap on the glass screen as I punch my message back, annoyed at Lucia for pointing out my error last night, and interrupting this moment with Olivia.
Me: I am taking care of her.
When I slide my gaze up, our eyes lock. Her own face shines with curiosity, spoon halfway to her mouth as her eyes sweep to my hand holding the phone. When she isn’t looking at me with fear or anger, there is something less guarded in her eyes, maybe even curious. It makes the fur on my arms prickle to attention as her glance glides up them, making me aware of my naked torso. Her eyes widen as she realizes she was gaping at my muscles and I swallow my chuckle.
“Why do you cut only two claws?” Already on edge, a furnace ignites in my blood at that question.
The man and monster stir with the same energy, the same desire flaring deep in my gut. Last night both worlds collided. I didn’t plan for her to see Monique, but in a way, I’m glad she did. I want her to be curious, want her to know that just because I am a monster doesn’t mean my cock stopped working. She watches me with cautious intrigue as I move across from her, and I see her body tightening. Flight or fight, will I touch her again? Not this time, but I will give her a little food for thought.
“You have asked me that twice now.” She straightens as I lean forward. “Would you like to know that I clip them to ensure that when I finger fuck the woman you saw last night, I don’t cut her?” Pure and utter shock fills her face, a tiny gasp of air whooshing from her lips as I hold the two fingers up. “It also ensures I don’t cut my tongue when I lick her cum off them.”
She pales, but something flickers in her eyes. Something heady fills my nostrils, it smells different to Monique, but the depth of it is still the same—arousal.
Ding.
I pull myself away, drag myself further down the counter, and open the fridge to offer myself a reprieve and a moment to get my shit under control. With a frustrated huff, I check my phone. Lucia’s message banks the fires.
Lucia: Can I come see her? She may need a friend.
My sister-in-law is deluded.
Me: Might I remind you she is not a guest, friend, nor a novelty. She is the sister of our sworn enemy, here to help us lure out the man who tortured you.
The moment the message says delivered, I know I’ve fucked up. Those three dots bubble up on the screen before disappearing. They begin again and disappear. I rub the bridge of my nose in frustration. Me and my big fucking mouth. I feel raw because of Olivia, but now aware that I am about to enter a shit storm.
Lucia: Thank you for the reminder.
Fuck.
I want to taunt the woman behind me some more, explore this new open dialogue we seem to have just started. But I check my phone and know that time is suddenly not on my side. I have limited time to dull my senses, forty-five minutes tops if traffic is good.
Facing Olivia, I find her watching me with weariness—I like that she stares. I like her eyes on me.
“I want you to take your food and go to your room,” I tell her resentfully. “Use that fancy entertainment system on loud and do not come out, no matter what you hear.” Her gaze shifts to something vicious.
“Really?” she snaps.
“Really, princess.” I pull some snacks from a cupboard and remove a bottle of water from the fridge. “Take these and stay in your room for the rest of the afternoon.”
If rage was a woman, this would be it. Her silver eyes are blazing with hatred, face all sharp angles from the softness I saw only moments ago. With the petulance of a true brat, she snatches up the food and water before storming away, clutching her goods to her chest.
“Oh and Olivia—” she pauses, but doesn’t turn—“I’ll put some of my shirts outside your door.”
When I say no more, she continues to move and I appreciate every line of her body as she marches down my debris lined hall. Turning, I make a beeline for my drinks cupboard, removing a bottle of blue label Johnnie. I don’t even bother with a tumbler, taking a swig straight from the neck and lavishing in the familiar burn as it trails down my throat. I have, in the space of twenty minutes, upset my sister-in-law, flirted with the enemy and fucked myself over. Taking another swig, I check the clock over the oven. I have exactly forty-five — minutes to numb myself before he gets here. Forty-five minutes to get shit faced, so when Emilio’s rage rolls in like the tide, I won’t feel a damn thing.