18. Chapter Eighteen— Cassiel #2
Foster mother #5 didn’t seem too concerned when I broke through the door, wet with sweat and blood.
But that was probably the cocktail of drugs in her system, which had her nearly comatose on the ratty, stained sofa that also served as a guest bed for the never-ending rotation of ‘friends’ my foster parents had around.
Hiding in the bathroom, I’d tried to clean myself up, only to be dragged back out into the quickly dying sunlight by the scruff of my neck, blinking away the sting of tears to peer into the unkept face of my foster dad.
Within seconds he’d pushed me into a chair, stitched me up without much care for cleanliness or neatness and then slugged me in the stomach for causing trouble.
“We don’t want the fucking cops sniffing around here and you know that,” he’d said.
It was his usual bullshit excuse for why he excluded me from the other boys and why he only ever beat me where the bruises wouldn’t be visible.
Lost in thought, I barely register Lottie leaning forward, fingers tapping across the touchscreen pad in the center console, until a pin pings across my dashboard, highlighting the input of a new, unregistered location.
I glance at her out the corner of my eye, raising an eyebrow in question.
Settling back against the cushioned headrest, her hand still in mine, resting on her lap, Carlotta closes her eyes. “Take me home, Cassiel.”
I make a beeline for the thermostat as soon as I’m inside Carlotta’s apartment, jamming my thumb into the up button until it’s a warm temperature.
Carlotta fights with removing her knee length suede boots, while I head for her kitchen, ripping open the refrigerator to see what I can whip up for the two of us.
After tonight, we need something warming and hearty.
Soup, maybe? If she has enough tomatoes, I could get started on a nice tomato soup, with grilled cheese triangles and a dollop of cream splashed on top.
Wait, does she have heavy cream? I could use single cream in a pinch, but—
I stop when I notice Carlotta’s fridge is indeed well stocked, but mainly with stacks of pre-packaged microwave meals.
Huffing to myself, I straighten up. Rome was the same when we moved in together. I guess when you grow up with a personal chef, cooking for yourself never becomes something you learn. Unlike myself, who had to learn unless I wanted to go to bed on a gnawing, painfully empty stomach.
“I’m guessing by the state of your fridge that you don’t cook from scratch?” I try for a slice of humor, rounding the small kitchen area to find Carlotta hugging herself, those pretty green eyes of hers once again staring into space, looking at something I can’t see.
She does a double take at the sight of me standing there, as if she’d forgotten I was in her apartment, before she shakes her head.
“I was taught growing up to cook from anything,” she utters, an undercurrent of defiance lacing her tone. “Nowadays, I just choose not to.”
“Oh.” I cough, mentally berating myself for jumping to conclusions. I’m coming to realize that every time I have an assumption about Carlotta Bellucci, she proves me wrong, knocking me on my ass with her sharp tongue and dry wit that I love.
“Do you want me to make us something?” Taking a step forward, I cup her elbows, grounding myself with the feel of her touch. “I make a mean—”
Carlotta tosses her head. “No, thanks. I just want to take a shower and get into bed.”
“Alright.” I swallow. “Gimme a shout when you’re done and—”
She pulls herself from my grasp before I can finish my sentence, moving like a waif, seemingly floating along down the dark corridor of her apartment without her feet touching the floor.
I watch her go, listening for the snick of the bathroom door opening and closing, before I begin my search.
A quick glance around shows a couple of spots within Carlotta’s apartment, which would be perfect to hide a few secrets cameras.
Nothing major or massively invasive. Maybe just two in her galley shaped kitchen, one from either end so she can be seen at any time, and one in her lounge beside the TV so I can pretend she’s looking right at me when I watch her through the feeds…
I wonder if I could get away with placing some in her bedroom too; for my own piece of mind so I can watch my girl sleep.
Cursing myself for not having any equipment on my person, or in the trunk of the SUV, I make a promise to come back when Carlotta’s at work.
I don’t need her catching me in the act and ripping me a new one.
More than likely, she’ll protest the idea of having live feedback cameras in her apartment in the first place…
but what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.
I smile to myself when I strike gold in the kitchen.
There, stuck to her refrigerator with an old-fashioned magnet, hangs her monthly work schedule, her name and the hours she’ll be working etched out with a bright florescent pink highlighter.
Snatching my cell from my back pocket, I snap a picture. Perfect.
At least now I won’t have to hack into her emails and screengrab her work schedule—
A shrill, ear-piercing scream sounds through Carlotta’s apartment, sending me sprinting towards the bathroom, twisting the doorknob and shoving the unlocked door open with my burly shoulder.
I find Lottie on her knees, wearing only her underwear, rocking and back and forth with her knees cradled to her chest.
“What’s wrong, baby?” I drop to my knees beside her, searching for where she could be hurt. Did she nick herself with the small secret blade I know she keeps hidden between her breasts?
“Lottie.” I take her ice-cold hands in mine, vaguely registering the speckles of dry blood settling into the half-moon of her fingernails. Mine aren’t fairing much better, but it’s nothing I haven’t seen or dealt with before. “I need you to tell me where you’re hurt, so I can—”
“I’m covered in blood!” Lottie sobs hysterically, lifting her face so I can see the silver tear tracks running through the splatters of dried blood coating her angelic features. “I’m covered in fucking blood! God, I’m gonna be sick again.”
She crawls to the toilet basin, but without anything in her stomach, she’s unable to spit anything up but a thimbleful of bile.
“Come on.” I cup her underarms, gently pulling us both to standing. My gut flips at the sight of her, the sound of her quiet crying.
Something just isn’t right.
I pull her into my body, splaying my palm across the back of her head, tucking her face to my shoulder so I know she’s safe.
A fresh wave of sobs wracks her small frame, vibrating through both of us. I press Carlotta closer, as close as our bodies will humanely allow, grazing my other hand up and down the exposed length of her spine.
My dick chooses that exact moment to twitch in my pants, seemingly only interested in the fact the woman I’m attracted to is half naked in my arms. Give me strength.
Twisting my hips an inch, so she can’t feel the length of me thickening against her warm upper thigh, I rock Lottie, muttering into her sweet-smelling hair line quietly, pressing a short kiss to her wet, tear stained cheekbone.
Eventually, her cries slow, nothing but the soft sound of her watery hiccups echoing around us.
“You okay, Princess?”
She nods and then shakes her head, popping her shoulders. “I don’t know anymore.”
The warble in her voice is like a serrated knife to the heart, painfully stealing the air from my lungs.
“You don’t have to be, Lottie.” I scrub a thumb along her jawline until she peers up at me with her red-rimmed eyes. “It’s okay not be okay and it’s okay to admit that. Healthy, even. You understand?”
She nods silently, upper teeth worrying against her plush bottom lip creating a little imprint I want to bite.
Saints, how I want to kiss her so fucking bad right now, but something stops me before I can act on how I really feel.
Swallowing thickly, I step to the side, keeping an arm still banded around Lottie’s waist while I reach past the seafoam colored tiles of her bathroom to turn on the shower.
I shake cold droplets from my hand as the water begins to warm, pulling the shower door shut to trap the growing whisps of steam inside.
“There.” I don’t dare peer down at Lottie because if I do, I know it’ll be game fucking over. “I’ll grab you a towel okay and—”
“No, please.” Her small hands fist the hem of my shirt, pulling, forcing me to meet her eyes. I’m too weak, too gone to resist her. “Don’t leave me, Cass. Please.”