Chapter Eighteen Tyler
Chapter Eighteen
TYLER
THE SILENT TREATMENT.
Something I’m fully aware women deem as punishment, but am all too eager to be a recipient of from the woman who’s refused me so much as a cursory glance today.
It’s obvious she’s made some decision regarding me since our last exchange.
Or maybe she’s embarrassed that I caught her amidst her climactic wet dream.
Though I find that doubtful, considering how bold she is—drugged or not.
With her opted silence today, I find myself thankful that I don’t have to mask the fucking desire I’ve been doused in since I watched her come apart by her own hand and imagination.
My own shame just beneath the skin when I stalked away from the tent, hand already in my pants, cock in my grip as I breached the trees.
And it wasn’t the first time since we got here.
The other being the night she licked my throat, demanding we fuck, and I felt how wet she was for me.
A night in which I spent embarrassing minutes pumping my enraged cock while replaying her murmured confessions—of how she wanted it, me—which had me biting my lip to stifle my groans.
It was the way she’d said it, laid it out.
As if I were someone she’s desired for a lot longer than our forced time together.
With her, as things are now, the friction is becoming unbearable, like two live fucking wires destined to detonate on contact. With her, it’s as if she’s the one thing I’m drawn to and equally repulsed by, and I can’t pinpoint why.
As I watch her now in my periphery, sorting through the bin of ingredients, her nose wrinkling in distaste due to the shit contents of the supply tubs, I can’t help but wonder what the hell she was fantasizing about.
Pondering what it is about her that has me so fucking hard up after seven consistent years of immaculate self-control.
It’s when she grabs a bottle of Wesson cooking oil, eyes widening while unscrewing the top, that my attention shifts to what her excitement could be about.
My curiosity quashed when she wets the tips of her fingers with the oil before rubbing it on her elbows.
In seeing it, I have to work hard to successfully stifle my laugh.
Sensing my reaction, she damn near breaks her latest stance on my nonexistence and nearly glances over at me.
Successfully keeping her charade up at the last second, she continually sifts and sorts through the scarce ingredients.
So far, she’s gathered enough to concoct a poor man’s bread, and I’m interested to see if she can pull it off.
As she begins to mill around with what she’s found, I keep at depositing more into my growing wood pile.
The mind-numbing task is proving a godsend in that it continually expends my energy so I can successfully pass out at night.
The drive of the axe is the only thing currently keeping me sane.
That and the fact that with her mostly finished list, we’re a step and a day closer to ending this.
A task that would be far easier to execute with her full cooperation—which I still haven’t gotten.
But we’ve got quite a lot on the docket before I can fully execute the plans we’ve set into motion. Which means I’m stuck with the mafia’s moodiest Betty Crocker a little longer.
It’s that thought that instantly brings a memory of my late wife’s comedic declaration flitting to mind.
“Yes, I agree. I feel done playing Betty Croc.”
Familiar ache seeps in as I recall the rest of a night that seems like it occurred a lifetime ago.
A night in which Delphine made every effort to seduce me.
Comically demanding that I service her needs right in front of Barrett.
A night that hasn’t at all faded from memory but remains one of my slowest blinks to relive.
A night where she cloaked me in her silk-covered love.
It’s then that I successfully shake away the spell.
The cold-water bucket containing my wife’s memory forever keeping me safe.
Because how could a little carnal lust ever possibly compare with the love I had with my soulmate?
It’s my last words to my wife as she parted that stoke the vow I’ve never broken.
“I loved you through space and time before, and I’ll do it again. I’ll do it again.”
Forever.
It’s that word that acts as the sledgehammer across my chest. The truth of that promise is far more daunting to keep now because the forever I vowed to her feels more like a condemning sentence as the years pass, where it was once utter bliss to whisper.
A promise that, if now spoken aloud, would go unreturned.
I can’t blame Delphine for the silence. I can only blame death. Loving her has always been effortless. A task I mastered early and maintain with every beat of my severed heart, but living without my forever? Nowhere close to the realm of comparison.
Another confusing truth is that that promise feels so strangely foreign. As if another man, a different man, uttered those words. But it’s my stuttered heart that reminds me with its next beat that I am the man who spoke them.
One foot in front of the other. Keep marching, Soldier.
Within a few blinks, I’m slicing through fresh wood to quell some of the burn. Within another few, I breathe a little easier as I lift my ballcap and clear my forehead.
Satisfied after I’ve chopped another log, I add it to my growing pile.
Maintaining camp has been relatively easy, and with Larissa distracted today, I find myself wondering what’s happening this side of the hour in DC.
For the most part, we’re in a sweet spot with Preston’s schedule.
The White House’s early-spring event calendar keeps him close to home.
Though concessions will have to be made in the coming weeks for what we have planned—I’ve got every nail lined up against the DiCicco coffin, save one.
The one needed being the longest, and the key to finding it within the little nightmare currently humming some old Italian song as she mixes various powders.
It’s when she grabs an unmarked can that I bite my tongue to stop her.
Tentatively opening the lid, she licks her finger before dipping it in.
Residual powder on her finger, and unsure of what she tasted, she darts her eyes my way as I lift a brow.
“Question?”
Her glare intensifies before she lowers her eyes and continues mixing her concoction sans the powdered Ex-Lax. Good call.
“Suit yourself,” I chuckle, unable to help my quip. “But it’s not like you haven’t sorted yourself already. Seem to be good with your hands.”
I feel her pause as I bring my axe down, knowing my smile is deepening.
A second later, it’s wiped off when the can lands squarely between my eyes.
My nose instantly begins gushing as my vision blurs.
A heartbeat later, I’m hearing Italian curses as a whirlwind of dark hair fills what vision I have and sharp nails blunt down my torso.
As spittle flies out of my mouth with the first punch, I recognize that I’m being attacked by a very, very pissed-off Italian woman.
Somehow now on the ground and blinded by the pain beating in my nose, I furiously blink my watering eyes to see a rapidly moving jaw snapping curses.
Before I can get my bearings, some of my hair is ripped from my scalp as she straddles me and begins raining down blows with her elbows to my stomach and ribs.
Hysterical and rabid, her curses leave her as she jabs me with expert precision while I catch her ranted words between blows.
“—stupid”—jab—“fucking”—jab—“man”—jab, jab, slap.
The second I gain clarity, I have her pinned beneath me, but she bucks her hips before I’m able to get her fully weighed down.
Having turned on her side, her hip manages to catch my crotch as I bring it down, leaving me crippled in pain.
Just as she positions herself to start delivering more blows, I catch her wrists before leading her into a death roll.
As she struggles to gain the upper hand, I palm her torso, careful to avoid her ribs.
Gasping, I manage to get her laid flat just as a furious fist connects with my sternum, knocking the rest of the wind, along with the ever-loving fucking shit, out of me.
A blow I would never have allowed land from any man, and I manage to catch the next just before it connects with my jaw.
“Stop it!” I shout down at her, eyes still watering from my pulsing nose.
Admittedly bewildered as I stare down at the defiant, furious woman whose expression clearly reads ‘to the death,’ I gape at her.
Unrelenting and seeming to catch her second wind, she snarls and claws, much like a fucking tiger would.
Now pinned beneath me, her fury and stamina fully take over as she begins whaling on me in any way she can.
Scratching the hands holding her while snarling and snapping her teeth as if she might bite me.
Given the chance, I’m sure she would. Somewhere between my barb and the hurl of the powder, she fucking snapped.
“Fuck you!” she rants, rage littering her features as I manage to get my first real look at her. Covered in dirt, hair littered with twigs, expression deadly, she stares up at me with the eyes of a vicious killer—and she’s never looked more fucking beautiful.
Her expression softens slightly for a split second when she sees the blood trickling down my nostril before she schools her features.
Her hate for me becoming tangible as her eyes demand even more bloodshed.
Anger winning, she makes quick peace with my injury.
Not only that, but it’s also clear she’s nowhere near satisfied with the damage she’s done.
It’s my burst of laughter at that truth that has her expending every bit of energy she has left to fight me.
“Madonna!” I widen my eyes, mocking her as more laughter spills out. “You’re pretty strong, little mobster. I’ll give you that.”
“I will kill you,” she spits venomously. “Sleep with one eye open, you bastard!”
“I already am, and the waiting list to get to me is pretty long, so good luck.”
“No one wants you, you fucking pig,” she slings, using the former insult I slung at her, thinking it will have some effect on me. All she’s done is let me know those words hurt her.
“It’s a good thing no one does, princess, because they would be disappointed.”
“Right about that,” she states, a shake in her voice. “You’re just like all the rest of them. All of them. Even the monsters! Especially them! You think you’re different? You fucking aren’t.”
I tense because she means this. She thinks this of me. No lies detected.
“Over your little crush already?”
“It was curiosity. Now I find you fucking boring, just like every other brainless dick I’ve ever encountered,” she launches up at me, chest heaving.
“A closed-off man with secrets, incapable of acting like a human or treating a woman like one? It’s every DiCicco man,” she spits.
“I could have my pick of men like that.”
Ire licks up my spine. “Compare me to any man, but not to your fucking father.”
“Why not? He’s got just as much regard for women as you do.”
With this, I tighten my grip on her wrists and lean in, a drop of blood from my nostril splashing onto her chest. “For the last fucking time, you don’t fucking know me.”
With that, I press briefly onto her wrists and release her. As expected, she springs up instantly, slapping my face—hard. I don’t bother to give her a reaction, which only enrages her further.
“I think we both know there’s nothing left to know of you, dead man,” she hurls like acid, “and what remains, I fucking loathe,” she seethes.
In response, I simply stare back at her, refusing to engage. She shakes her head furiously, her beautiful features rippling with rage as she spews more venom.
“I can’t believe I thought you were a better man.
Some exception to the rule. All you’ve done is fucking terrorize me since I came to your door, asking you for your help, for your friendship.
In return, you humiliate and punish me for it!
” She rushes me again, but stops herself as I stay glued to the ground I’m on.
She backs up, lifting her eyes to the sky briefly before nailing me again with honey-lit fire.
“So yes, you’re right. I had no idea who I was asking, because all you truly are or have become is a soulless, over-trained fucking weapon who should have been buried with her. ”
All the shake in her voice disappears as she casts her judgment. Resolve taking its place and lacing her words. Words that have managed to deliver in spades what her hands and fists couldn’t. “That’s when you died anyway, isn’t it, Marine?”
Too outraged to speak or reply, I let her level me with her venom.
“What?” she taunts, managing to glimpse something in my return expression.
“I can’t go there? I can’t insult you with the hard truth?
But you can? You can demean me by association, treat me like fucking filth, like a disease, while fucking me with your eyes?
Well, fuck you, dead man—do unto others.
” Rage shakes her voice as she lifts her chin and delivers.
“Tell you what, if you truly want to save this world, the people you care about, maybe save them from you, because no one—especially no woman—is fucking safe with you as their protector!”
I manage to catch the water glistening in her eyes. Her tears not from hurt but from outrage as she disappears into the tent. A whirlwind of flame, of life … of fight.
The kind of fight I recognize and find myself jealous of.
A fight that I miss with every beat of my mangled heart.
But it’s within the length of its next broken beat that I recognize I felt a flicker of that same fight within myself, and with her, during our short seconds on the ground …
and just before she singed me to fucking ashes.
Standing in those sparking embers now—for the first time in years, when my chest starts to roar with the loss of that fight—I ignore the beckoning blink, which gives me the out to sweep any of the discomfort away.
Instead, I allow the burn, the singe, to have its way with me.
I allow myself to feel it, to acknowledge that something was there.
And something was there.
Even if it was brief and only for a few blinks, I was fighting again.
In knowing that, I reach out for that feeling just enough to sense it lingering, feet away, zipped in that tent.
Tempted to follow it—if only to get another hit—instead I allow myself to feel the burn left in her wake.
And feel it I do, for the rest of the day.