Chapter 10
AMELIA
I’m strolling through the halls with Frankie, dropping her off at her next lecture. Skye is at the dorm, probably in her pajamas by now, but Frankie had an evening class today. After she hung out at our dorm, Skye suggested one of us should walk her.
Frankie has fit right into our friend group so far. I guess that’s what John intended in the first place. I’m not sure if he set us up because I’m supposed to look after her or she’s supposed to look after me. She’s really funny and energetic, like a firecracker, the exact opposite of her cold father. How she came out of his ball sack, I’ll never know.
After I drop Frankie at class, I suddenly find myself cornered—literally—by Rhett and Rhys while passing through the library.
“What is your problem?!” My fists clench at my sides. They’re not letting me walk. I feel trapped, just like I did when he held a gun to me.
“Come with us,” Rhys says, looking annoyed.
I become hyper-aware that if Rhys is back, that means Blade is too. “Where?”
“Restaurant.”
“What, are you going to hold a gun to me again if I say no?” I cross my arms.
“No, but we could give you a sedative, dress you ourselves while you’re passed out naked, then drive you to the restaurant right when you wake up.” Rhys has a crude smile on his face.
Rhett elbows him, a gesture to ‘knock it off’, and I’m thankful that at least one of them is rational. Their opposing personalities are like Yin and Yang. Rhett must’ve stolen all the level-headed traits in the womb.
“Fine, I’ll go.” I sigh, uncrossing my arms. “How do you feel being someone else’s lapdog?”
Rhys gets in my face, the surprise of his quick movements drawing a small yelp from my lips. “I’m not anyone’s fucking lapdog,” he says through gritted teeth. He reaches out and grabs a tight hold of my arm.
“Let me go,” I hiss, trying to pull away, but his grip is too tight.
Fortunately, Rhett yanks away his evil twin with a forceful pull, causing him to release my arm. “Just stop now or I’ll tell Blade about what you just did,” Rhett threatens.
We walk to the parking lot and pile into the car, with Rhett opening the door for me to get in the backseat. See? Level-headed.
Rhys rants while Rhett is driving, intending for me to hear every word. “He needs to hurry up and get bored of her like he got bored with the other ones. She makes our job so much harder, at least we didn’t have to follow the other ones around or give them any special treatment.”
He acts like this is my fault all of this is happening. Like I’m the one who barreled my way into their lives on purpose.
After making a quick stop at my dorm to change, Blade meets us at the restaurant, and we step through the front door together. Blade’s hand rests on my lower back, his touch igniting a trail of heat against my skin. Of course, I had to wear a backless dress tonight.
I notice the hostess avoiding eye contact with either of us. A moment later, a male waiter in his mid-twenties approaches and whispers something in her ear before raking his eyes up and down my figure. He stares at me as if he’s peeling away my clothes with his gaze, and I shift uncomfortably.
Why do guys feel the need to ogle women in public? As if we’re nothing more than our bodies?
Blade clears his throat, and the hostess sends the waiter a glare, causing him to throw his hands up and walk off. We follow the hostess to a secluded private room, and she speaks up, “Sorry about him, he’s new. We’ll handle him.”
Instead of responding, Blade gives a slight nod, pulling out my seat for me and going to sit on his side of the table.
“I’ll have a waiter come in two minutes for your orders. Enjoy the array of drinks at the table,” the hostess says before scurrying off.
I take a subtle look around the private room. The expensive decor is decked out in white and gold, with soft ambient lighting that creates the mood of a five-star hotel.
Suddenly my nerves kick up.
I hate ordering. I hate ordering. I hate ordering.
The waiter—a different one from earlier—comes through the door and approaches our table. Blade orders a bland grilled chicken entrée with sides. I didn’t take him for the healthy type. But then again, his nice physique didn’t come out of thin air.
“She’ll have a lasagna entrée, no bread,” he says, gathering both menus and handing them to the waiter.
The waiter doesn’t even confirm if that’s what I actually want. Hell, he doesn’t even glance in my direction once before walking out of the room.
“I guess my menu was just for show, huh?”
“I guess so.” There’s amusement in his tone.
“I’m gluten-free. I can’t have lasagna.”
He chuckles. “They make a gluten-free lasagna.”
“Oh, well, I guess you got lucky.”
“Lucky? Or did I specifically order that because it’s your favorite food? Or did I bring you to this restaurant because they have the best gluten-free lasagna in town? Or did I order for you because I know you’re nervous about ordering at restaurants? I don’t believe in luck, I believe in preparation.”
He’s right, lasagna is my favorite food. My mom used to cook it for me all the time before my gluten-sensitivity diagnosis. She’d use a big cookie cutter to shape my piece into a heart when I was little.
“How do you know all that?” I ask.
He smirks. “It’s amazing what information people will give up with the right motives in place.”
“My dad...” Did he give Blade a whole rundown of my life? He’s the only one who knows all that.
“Your dad did several things he had to do to stay out of trouble for taking you to John’s house.”
My eyes widen. “How do you know about that?”
“I told you, I know everything about you . And I’m going to have fun punishing you for it.” He licks his lips, and the action fires something inside me. Curse him for having perfect, plump lips.
I clear my throat to bat away the obscene thoughts about to cross my mind. By punish does he mean…
“Ask me anything. This is our official first date. So you can get to know me like you wanted.”
“I didn’t say that. All I said was I didn’t know you.”
“Right. Which implies if you did know me, you’d give me a willing chance.”
I mean, I don’t have a choice but to give him a chance, do I? But he doesn’t know about John’s threat and I’m sure as hell not stirring up any trouble by telling him.
He places his hand over mine and uses his thumb to caress the area. When I try to pull my hand away, he tightens his grip to hold it still. Instead of protesting further, I think about what type of question I want to ask him. Although, I don’t know if I want to get too deep, the less I start to know about him, the better.
“What made your mother come up with a name like Blade?”
He tenses for a second. It’s so subtle I almost miss it, but I feel it in the way his hand tightens.
“ She didn’t name me that. It’s a nickname.” His emphasis on the word ‘she’ seems like a bitter taste in his mouth.
“Really? So what’s your real name?” I’m curious now. All this time he’s known every detail of my life, while I don’t even know his real name.
“Aiden. Aiden Moretti.”
“So, you’re Italian?” I ask. The name sounds Italian.
“Technically. An ancestor decades ago came over from Italy with his wife and son. This was when the group was first forming and you didn’t need bloodline ties to join. He just saw it as a way to provide for his family in a new country.”
A part of me wants to know more about the world he’s in, especially since my dad has been involved in it for who knows how long. The other part wants to stay in the blind about it all. They say ignorance is bliss. I decide to leave it for now.
“Do you speak the language?” I ask.
“I know bits and pieces. I’m not fluent, though. My dad knows it, and he taught me here and there. Why, do you like Italian? I can finish learning it for you.”
“No.” I laugh. He’s really absurd. “I was just wondering. I was going to ask you to say something in it.”
He eyes me for a beat, seeming to decide what to say. “ ti penso giorno e notte .”
Jesus.
I don’t even know what it means, but it sounds so freaking hot in that language. I wonder what he would sound like whispering Italian in my ear while we—
Clearing my throat, I ask, “Why do they call you Blade, then?”
He smiles cryptically. “There’s reasons.”
The waiter returns and places our food down, the delicious smell immediately clouding the air. Usually, the gluten-free options at food places suck. But this looks amazing.
“So, are you going to tell me why they call you Blade, or do I have to ask around? I’m sure someone would be willing to tell me,” I joke.
“You can ask around. I know one thing, I can make you come with a blade in my hand.” He smirks. “Maybe that’s the reason, maybe not.”
My lips part as I search for a retort, the air seeming to have turned to fire in my chest. “In your dreams.” I roll my eyes, trying to play it off.
“Well, that’s wonderful. Because my dreams always come true, angel.”
I keep a neutral face, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing his words are affecting me.
“So, you asked me a question. Now it’s my turn to ask you one. What’s something you hate?”
“Cooking,” I blurt out, with a touch more urgency than intended. But I really do hate it. My mom always tried to get me to cook with her, and the few times I did, it was a disaster.
He laughs, taking a sip of his drink. “Hmm, well I swear I will never let you cook for yourself ever again, then. I’m not too bad in the kitchen.”
This man is… I can’t even think of another word other than bizarre. Is he so obsessed with me that just because I mentioned once how much I hate cooking, he swears I’ll never have to cook again?
The rest of the dinner passes with light conversation and he still insists on touching my hand every so often.
“You haven’t even eaten a third of your plate,” he points out.
Yeah, so you don’t think I’m a fat pig.
“Do I need to come over there, sit you on my lap, and feed you myself?” His tone is playful, but there’s a glint in his eye that tells me he’d do it—and enjoy every second of it.
I shake my head.
“So finish eating whatever amount makes you full. Not the amount you think I want to see you eat.”
I blow out a small breath and pick up my fork. There’s really no use in arguing, and it doesn’t hurt that the food is amazing.
“Good girl,” he praises, and my heart skips a literal beat at the words, wanting to hear it again.
No, no, no.
This isn’t right.
I know it isn’t right.
He’s in some kind of gang where they probably commit crimes, hurt people—or maybe even kill people.
But that doesn’t stop the butterflies from fluttering low in my stomach.