Chapter 4
GIANA
E verywhere I go, people in this mansion seem to halt conversations.
Miss Paranoia that I am, I can’t help but think it’s because they’re talking about me. But then again, there are bona fide killers coming and going who I don’t think are into gossiping like mean girls at school.
Maybe I’m not the hot topic.
I think everyone’s planning something.
And my husband…
It’s been a few days since the funeral, and he’s like a hen’s tooth. So scarce he might now be a myth.
I hate him.
I miss him.
I love… no . Don’t even think it.
In the living room, I grab the cashmere throw and start folding it to give myself something to do.
Isaia walks past, his gaze sliding to me. There’s a moment, a split second, that I’m reminded of the night I spent with him and Caelian, but it’s not weird or awkward. Just something…familiar.
I try to smile from deep within, but he turns, someone speaking to him just out of my sight, and then he’s gone.
Carefully, I put the deep rose throw over the arm of the sofa. I hesitate and try the back. Finally, I just roll it up and put it in the white wicker basket near a sleek rack for magazines.
Even when I first arrived here months ago, I didn't feel as out of place as I do now. It’s like there’s this constant chill wrapping its fingers around my bones, the prickle of awareness permanently skittering along the back of my neck.
Rubbing my arms, unsure if I’m a ghost or just leftovers, I know I need to leave the house. Just for a little while so I can breathe. Maybe lick all those self-inflicted wounds no one sees.
Eyes on the polished floorboards, I cross to the door right as the temperature changes and my heart rate goes through the roof.
The doorway suddenly shrinks, and all the air vanishes. Only one person can do that when I’m in the same room with him.
I look up and into his eyes. Caelian’s facial hair has crossed from scruff to beard-like, and he looks tired. Stressed. It radiates in waves, and the cigarette smoke that clings to him tells me he’s been smoking way more than usual.
The scent isn’t one I like. Normally. On him, there’s something brokenly decadent, dark, and depraved about it.
Up in my room, I hide one of his shirts, which he wore. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, when the longing starts screaming in the dark, I’d lift the shirt to my face and breathe in the scent of him. Saffron, leather, and smoke that teases and clings like pheromones.
Again, not something I normally like. But Caelian? He seems to break all the rules.
Our gazes lock, and my heart stutters. I can’t read his expression; it’s dark and distant, and distracted. But as the moment stretches, the distraction shifts to piercing, to unerring focus, and it’s almost an unholy experience. Something I feel in my soul.
He shifts closer, and my pulse races. It’s a slight movement that sets my blood on fire, and my breath gets caught in my throat.
My nerves flit as he drops his gaze to my mouth, and I tilt my face up like he’s the sun after a long and frozen winter. Everything becomes charged and hot. It's a secret signal, our silent conversation.
His eyes, a scorching gold amber, slide up to mine again, igniting desire, fear, and confusion.
He bends close.
My stomach coils.
My lips anticipating.
When it comes, his voice is a low tempest, a storm hushed to a whisper. “Giana.”
I shudder, his breath a warm slide on my skin.
The sound of my name in that tone, so fraught and smoky and intimate, sends a shockwave careening through my veins. The world condenses into this single moment of infinite possibility.
“I need you to give me your phone.”
Ice spreads, swallowing the morsel of hope. His request is so mundane it's jarring, and my pulse stammers in confusion.
I swallow the hurt and summon the fight. “I don’t expect words of tenderness from you, Caelian,” I say, “but I also don’t expect to be treated like some kind of…of…chattels.”
“Hardly chattels.” His eyes slip to my mouth once more, and my blood warms again, even as I don’t want it to. “Do I look like a man who lets chattels have things like phones, autonomy, a pretty wardrobe?” He pauses. “Isn’t the wardrobe full of chattels? Maybe more slave-wife? It’s like a sister-wife but less problematic. Or is that more?”
I wait until he’s done. “You’re not having my phone.”
His nostrils flare, and the sun of him turns into ice and he moves, as do I, away from him until I hit the doorjamb.
Caelian crowds me. “Give me your fucking phone.”
“No.”
“I’m locking it away.”
A harsh sound escapes. “I’m not a prisoner, am I?”
“You can have a call at five. Do they still have a talking clock? Or maybe you’ve got some stupid boyfriend you like to swap virginal stories with. Though we both know you’re not that. Or maybe you want to call your father.”
“I want my phone. There’s a hot new version of Snake Out I want to try, see how it compares to the real thing.”
He smiles. “Well, it’s longer, the game version, but nowhere near as much fun for you, or as thick as the real-life one.”
It takes me two seconds to latch on to the sexual meaning. “For reference, I was calling you a snake.” I won’t be taken by scraps of what he likes to call charm, no matter how lonely and lost I feel. “Snake.”
“Look, New York, I’m…” He stops, breathes out. “I can’t have you calling your dad or even your brother.”
“I told you I won’t tell my father anything. And I know this is a new concept to you, but some of us actually keep our word.”
“Still. Can’t chance it. There’s a high probability I’ll piss you off, and I can’t risk you running off to Daddy with all my secrets.”
“If that’s the case, I would have done that already since you piss me off daily.”
“How’s that possible when I’ve hardly been around you for the last two weeks?” He cocks a brow. “Is that it, New York? You miss me?”
I clench my hands, that familiar feeling of hate and lust grinding at my ribs. “You know what? Fuck you.” I grab my phone and slap it at his chest then push past him.
“Where the fuck are you going?”
“Out.” I stalk down the hall, and he strides behind me, all the way to the foyer.
“You can’t leave the grounds.”
“I’m aware. I plan on finding the farthest point from you and decaying there until I’m forced to see your face again.”
“Decaying? That’s a bit melodramatic, don't you think?” His tone is smooth and irritatingly calm, starkly contrasting the storm brewing within me.
“Perhaps,” I call back over my shoulder and jerk the front door open. “But it accurately describes how I feel around you.” With that, I slam the door and storm out across the parking lot toward the trees, desperate to get away from him.
The mansion shrinks behind me as I head toward the edge of the grounds, the surrounding forest.
I walk until I reach a place where the landscaping starts to morph into a wilder beauty, with trees and bushes offering hiding places. I know he’s not following me. I would’ve felt it. Him. His presence that somehow takes up all the space around me.
So, I trudge on, the crunch of fallen leaves and twigs beneath my boots being the only sound that fills the chilled autumn air.
There’s a gnarled old oak tree that provides protection from the chill in the breeze, and I sit beneath it, leaning against the rough bark.
The leaves sway overhead in rhythmic lullaby, while I draw my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around them.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the image of that smug, beautiful goddamn face of the man I hate to love. That’s what this is.
Love. Hate.
A relationship you could etch on the blades of a double-edged sword, sharp, cutting, painful. Yet excruciatingly beautiful in essence.
It’s pathetic how much I wanted him to kiss me. My entire body started humming just by the idea of feeling his lips against mine once again.
But in typical Caelian fashion, he set me up for disappointment. He’s always been good at that, tearing down expectations and replacing them with frustration and let-downs.
This time was no different.
I press my forehead against my knees, the warmth seeping through my jeans providing me an infinitesimal sense of comfort. How is it possible to feel like I want to run from and to him at the same damn time?
Breathing in deeply, I try to distance my thoughts from the things that hurt. The longer I sit in the silence, the more the world around me feels like it’s slowing down, like I can breathe easier.
“What about Giana?”
Mira’s voice startles me, and I glance around the tree trunk. Why is she out here?
“Yeah. I don’t like it, Mira, but it’s the only way.”
And pretty, feisty Mira, someone I’ve grown to love, sighs, and there’s a heartbreak folded up in that sound. “I know,” she says, her voice low.
I hate eavesdropping, so I start to rise.
“No one can know.” Nicoli’s words freeze me in place.
I inch closer, and my foot gets caught in a giant tree root.
“And by no one,” Mira says, “you mean Giana.”
“ Especially Giana. This entire goddamn mess is because?—”
I stumble and almost fall face-first into the dirt before catching my balance.
“Giana!” Mira’s voice lights up the most awkward moment.
I wipe my palms. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to intrude.” My smile’s as big and bright and fake as hers. “Are you two making out?”
“Nicoli was just blaming too many guests for dragging me out here for a tryst.”
I think I’m in a competition of who can smile the fakest because when Mira stops speaking, my smile also gets bigger.
“Or that’s what he wants you to think.” And then I stop.
I’m sure they want to know exactly what I overheard as much as I want to be in the loop and know what the hell they were talking about. But I’m not in the loop, and I heard nothing except the evidence that I’m not trusted—probably because blame has been placed on me.
My smile falters and dies as my eyes and throat burn, and I swear if I cry, I’m taking myself to that mausoleum and finding an empty crypt to shrivel up and die in.
“I, uh…I think I’ll just go to my room and get out of everyone’s way.”
Then I make myself look at Nicoli. What must it be like for him, seeing his brother every time he looks into the mirror, reminded of his brother’s absence whenever he sees his reflection? It’s got to be a special kind of torture for him.
I swallow the burning lump. “I’m so sorry. For everything.” And with that, I turn and head back.
At first, my stride’s steady and as confident as I can make it, but then I start slowing down because where am I rushing to? Home? This isn’t my home. These aren’t my people. I don’t belong here. Everyone knows it, so I’m being excluded.
I don’t know where to go or what to do. I’m stuck in this place, drifting endlessly in so much uncertainty it’s like trying to navigate through a thick, unending fog. Every step feels like an effort on my part, yet I have no choice but to keep moving forward while I pine for a man I shouldn’t.
Right or wrong, love or hate, Caelian’s touch is magic. It can burn away the bad, even if it’s only for a few minutes. And since that horrible moment when Alexius was gunned down, I haven’t had it. Not a kiss, a touch, or something made of pure lust.
As I step out from under the trees, I see him. He’s with a blond, tattooed man in a fabulous suit.
The blond notices me the moment Caelian does, and I’m far enough away they shouldn’t have. They’re going over something outside, and the blond folds up the paper and puts it away, right as two other men I don’t know come out.
But Caelian’s attention’s on me, his gaze fixed and unblinking.
For a heart-stopping moment, I think he’ll come over—to do what? Take me in his arms and tell me it’s going to be okay? Tell me that we’ll ride off into the sunset and leave this life and everyone in it behind?
God, Giana, you’re pathetic.
After our conversation earlier, I know he’s not going to do any of those things, but it still hurts when he looks away and walks back into the house like I’m not even here. Like he didn’t just stare through my goddamn soul.
Tears start to burn, but I don’t try to stop them from falling this time. I’m tired. I’m lonely. And I’m so done with pretending I’m fine. At least for today.
Wiping at my cheeks, I rush up the stairs of the back porch when the sudden whiff of cigarette smoke hits me.
“You shouldn’t wander out so far.”
I yelp and spin around, finding the heathen priest sitting in the corner, his collar on the table, a bottle of gin in front of him, and an ashtray and a glass.
“It’s easy to get lost on this estate.”
I brush away my tears. “Don’t you have a flock?”
“Fuck the flock,” he says. “They’re mostly criminals, old ladies, and women who want to bang the clergy.”
I stare at him.
He pours some gin, pushes the glass to me, and then takes the bottle himself. “Terrible habit.” He takes a drag from his cigarette.
“Booze, women, or tobacco?”
He laughs. “Yeah, I see why you and Caelian fit together. I meant religion.”
I approach and pull out one of the wrought iron chairs and perch on the end, taking a sip of the herbaceous and aromatic alcohol.
Tobias leans forward, a smile on his face that might belong to an angel. “The perk of death in rich households is the booze.” But beneath the lightness, there’s something darker, heavier. A sadness.
“Your sermon at the funeral,” I start. “You cared for Mrs. Del Rossa.”
“This family saved me.”
“From what?”
“Death.” Our eyes remain locked, the air heavy with his truth.
I shift and lean back in the chair. “One would think, as a priest, it’s religion that saved you.”
He gestures to his collar on the table. “I do this for the family and nothing else.”
“A corrupt priest.”
“A loyal one.”
“I bet your God would disagree.”
“He’s not my God.”
Silence settles, and I watch him for a while. There’s something dark and jaded about him—something broken. Something that can’t be fixed.
He leans his head to the side, studying me with his mysterious blue eyes. “You look troubled.”
“So do you,” I reply.
A smile appears on his face as he stretches out his arms. “I’m a priest. I carry the troubles of my flock.”
“I thought you said fuck the flock.”
“I get the feeling you’re not a part of this flock.”
I take a sip of the gin, letting the alcohol sting the back of my throat. “For a corrupt priest, you’re very intuitive.”
“There are some things religion can’t teach you.” His gaze remains on me, holding a personal and yet distant weight. “What’s troubling you?”
For a moment, I study him, not sure I can trust him. Probably not. But I have nothing to lose.
I grasp my glass with both hands, staring at it as I say, “No one trusts me. Caelian avoids me. I think they blame me for what happened to Alexius.”
The tears burn, and I dash one away.
“Do they blame you, or do you blame you?”
“Let’s say that’s a unanimous vote of blame laying.”
His smile is small, yet somehow a comfort. “Guilt is a heavy burden, isn't it?”
“I keep thinking if I hadn’t married Caelian, none of this would have happened. If I hadn’t run, and just married Aurelio?—”
“If you’d been blonde. If you’d been taller. If you’d been born on a Thursday under a full moon. If is a dangerous word. And it changes nothing. There’s a now and the future. Oh, fuck, am I boring,” he mutters. But his eyes are kind.
“And Caelian?” I ask. “He doesn’t want to be in the same room as me.”
“Grief is one fucked up monster. It does shitty things. It turns things on their sides and pretends up is down and down is up.” He takes a drag of his smoke, then ashes. “Try to talk, simple words, just what’s in your heart.”
“And what, Father?” I don’t miss the way his mouth twists up at that. “Tell myself he doesn’t mean anything horrible he might say?”
“Caelian’s a lot of things, mostly cocky. He handles shit with humor. There isn’t much room for cocky and humor right now, so that…” He shrugs. “It can make a man feel displaced.”
“And a woman?”
“Well, that’s the secret of life, isn’t it? Women are just fucking smarter than men.”