Chapter Thirty
Lorenzo
The party was a fucking success, not that I gave a shit. All I wanted was to get the hell out of there. But there was one thing I couldn’t brush off, the fucking fear in her eyes when her father called her away.
Something is off.
I should be enjoying this, watching the Beaumont family fall apart piece by piece.
I should be relishing in the thought of her suffering just as much as the rest of them.
That was the plan, wasn’t it? Make her father bleed, make him lose everything, watch as his daughter, the perfect, golden girl, crumbles with him.
But the way she felt in my arms tonight, the way her soft skin burned under my touch, the way her eyes darkened when she saw me with Ashley, fuck. Maybe I don’t need to make her suffer. Maybe I just need to make him suffer.
Something happened to her tonight. And I need to know who did it.
Though, if I have to bet?
I already know.
I had Andres drive the girls home, and of course, the bastard moaned about it like a little bitch. Spent twenty minutes ranting that he’s not my personal fucking driver and that he has “better things to do.” I let him talk. Let him vent all the way until he realized he didn’t have a fucking choice.
He texted me after dropping Sienna off. But when it came to Serena?
She never made it home.
Because I gave Andres different instructions.
I wanted her with me tonight.
I needed her with me.
Watching her leave that party was fucking torture. My blood burned for her, my dick painfully hard in my suit the second I had her pressed against me on that dancefloor. But it wasn’t just that.
I wanted her.
I wanted to wipe that sadness from her eyes. I wanted to fucking erase the people who put it there.
And fuck me, I’m a man of my word.
And that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
“Look at me.” She doesn’t.
Her entire body stiffens, her breathing uneven, her gaze darting anywhere but mine. She knows what I see. She knows I won’t fucking let this go.
I grip her chin, not rough, but enough to make her look at me. And when she finally does, I swear something in me fucking snaps.
Her big brown eyes, glossy, filled with unshed tears, are pleading with me, but not in the way I want. Not in the way that makes my cock twitch when she begs. This? This is pain.
And then I see it.
A fucking bruise.
Barely hidden under layers of makeup, but my fingers grazing her cheek smudge just enough of it away to expose the truth. It’s faint, but it’s there. Someone hit her. Someone put their hands on her.
I breathe in slowly, but it does nothing to cool the fire licking up my spine. My jaw clenches so hard I swear I feel my molars crack. Who the fuck did this?
“Who?” My voice is low, deadly, the kind that sends most men pissing themselves in fear.
She flinches at the question, and fuck, I hate that. Hate that she’s afraid. Hate that I can’t fix it right now. Hate that the person who did this is still breathing.
I brush my thumb over the bruise gently, but she still winces.
The pain is still fresh. My ears start ringing, my vision blurs at the edges, and the only thing keeping me from breaking something is the fact that she’s right in front of me.
But whoever did this? They’re already dead. They just don’t fucking know it yet.
“Tell me, princess,” I say, my voice tight, restrained. Barely controlled fury. I wipe away the tears falling down her cheeks, but they keep coming. “Who did this?”
I’m already picturing it. Already planning.
How I’ll find them.
How I’ll break them.
How I’ll fucking unmake them.
I imagine their tongue, cut up, piece by piece, each one ripped from their mouth with the edge of my knife.
I’ll make them apologize for every single hit before I slice another chunk.
Beg for her fucking forgiveness before I move to their hands.
One finger at a time, the same ones that touched her, bruised her.
And then their entire fucking hands, so they’ll never be able to hit another woman again. My woman.
Her breath hitches. “Lorenzo.”
The way she says my name, broken, desperate, only fuels the rage clawing at my chest. But for her, I hold it in. For now.
“Please, tell me.”
Please.
The word tastes wrong coming out of my mouth. I don’t ask for things. I don’t beg. I take what I want, what I need. But for her, I need to hear it from her lips.
Her body shakes, her breath uneven, and when the first real sob rips from her chest, something inside me fucking shatters.
She’s breaking in front of me. And the only thing I want to do is destroy every single person responsible for it.
“If you won’t tell me, I’ll find out myself,” I growl, my voice calm in a way that’s more terrifying than when I yell.
Because I will.
And if my gut is right, if my suspicions are even close to being true, then that motherfucker is already dead. He just doesn’t know it yet.
I cup her face, my fingers brushing over her damp cheeks, my thumbs wiping away the endless tears that keep falling, like she can’t stop breaking right in front of me.
And fuck, I don’t know how to fix this, but I have to.
Her brown eyes, deep and drowning in pain, lock onto mine, and something inside my chest tightens so hard it feels like it’s going to fucking snap.
I lean in, pressing the lightest kiss to her trembling lips. She closes her eyes, like she’s letting herself believe in the comfort I’m trying to give, but the tears keep coming, rolling down her flushed cheeks, soaking into my skin.
Never again.
This is the last time I’ll ever let her cry like this.
I pull her into my arms, wrapping her up so tight there’s no space between us, like I can hold her together through sheer will. She clings to me, her body shaking, and then she starts to sob, loud, raw, gut-wrenching.
I can’t fucking breathe.
My vision blurs, my ears ring, my pulse pounds in my temples with every ragged sound coming from her mouth. My rage is burning a hole in my chest, but I push it down, keep it in check. Not now. Not when she needs me like this.
I loosen my hold just enough to look at her, pressing my lips against her forehead. Her tear-soaked lashes flutter, and when her eyes meet mine, there’s something there that wrecks me. She looks at me like she’ll break if I let go.
So I don’t.
Instead, I slide my hands down her body, slow, deliberate. I unfasten her dress and let it fall, my eyes tracing the curve of her body. She’s in nothing but a black thong. No bra. She’s fucking perfect. But this isn’t about sex.
Not tonight.
She watches me, uncertain, but she doesn’t stop me when I hook my fingers under the waistband of her thong and slide it down her legs. She closes her eyes, folding into my touch, surrendering.
I stay fully dressed as I lift her into my arms again, carrying her effortlessly through the house. Her head rests against my shoulder, her body warm and soft, fragile in a way that makes my blood boil.
The bathroom is quiet, peaceful in a way that I fucking crave but never get.
The sound of running water fills the space as I turn the faucet, warm steam rising around us.
I hold her against me, my arms locked around her waist, my lips brushing against her forehead as she exhales, her last tear slipping away.
She’s safe.
I lower her into the bath, watching the water rise around her skin. One second later, I’m joining her, fully clothed, because I don’t give a fuck about anything else right now but her.
Her eyes flick to mine, lips parting, hesitant. She’s waiting for me to do something. To say something.
Instead, I reach for the shampoo, lathering it between my hands before running my fingers through her hair, massaging her scalp, slow and deliberate.
I have no fucking clue what I’m doing, but she melts into my touch like I’m the only thing keeping her from falling apart.
I want her to smell like me.
I want her to carry my mark.
I want to run through her veins.
I want to be her everything.
She tilts her face up to me, her eyes locked on mine, and then she moves. Slowly. Cautiously. Her fingers graze my jaw, her touch light but fuck, it’s like fire on my skin. And then her lips, soft, hesitant, press against mine, and I let her take it.
I let her own this kiss, because right now, if I take over, I’ll fucking ruin her.
I let her taste me. Let her claim me. Let her explore me because if I lose control, I’ll devour her.
And I want to. I need to.
I need to drink her in, to feel her surrender under me, to make her scream my fucking name until it’s the only word she knows.
“Thank you,” she whispers against my lips, her voice delicate, fragile.
Her arms tighten around my neck, her bare body pressing into me, her warm, wet pussy right against my lap, rubbing against my pants like she has no idea what she’s doing to me.
If this isn’t torture, I don’t know what the fuck is.
I clench my jaw, barely holding myself back. Every inch of me wants to grab her, throw her down, claim her, but I won’t. Not yet.
“You can have everything,” I rasp, my voice thick with restraint, my fingers digging into her waist as I pull her closer, making sure she feels exactly how fucking hard she’s making me.
She blinks, confused, her fingers skimming my jaw, her thumb running over my bottom lip.
“What?” she breathes.
“Everything you want, I’ll give it to you.”
And then I fucking take her mouth.
I kiss her like I need to, like she’s oxygen and I’m starving for air. I kiss her like she’s my goddamn salvation, my undoing, my reason for fucking breathing.
Hungrily.
Desperately.
Like my life depends on it. Like her life depends on it.
And then the realization hits me, if I destroy her father, I destroy her.
For the first time in my life, I hesitate.
For the first time in my life, I consider letting someone live.
But I don’t stop.
I can’t fucking stop.
I kiss her harder. Deeper. Desperation bleeding into my touch as I push the thought away.
I’ll deal with it later.
I hold her tighter, like if I let go, she’ll disappear. Fuck. Even after I washed her with my shampoo, the vanilla still lingers on her skin, still intoxicating me, still driving me insane.
Her hands start to explore me, tentative but eager, tracing over my wet shirt, feeling the solid lines of my body. And then, she starts pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to my neck, her lips warm, teasing, fucking sinful.
I grit my teeth, my grip tightening on her hips as I fight every single fucking urge to pin her down and take her apart.
She’s testing me.
She’s pushing me.
And she knows it.
She keeps moving, her body shifting against me, her bare skin sliding against my soaked clothes, her warm, wet cunt rubbing against the rock-hard proof of how badly I need her.
A growl rips through my chest as she trails her kisses lower, down my neck, over my shoulder. My control is fucking slipping, and I know if I let her go any further, I’ll have her pinned against this tub in the next second, legs spread, begging for me.
Before I lose myself completely, I stop her.
I have to.
I grab her wrists, turning her around in the water and pulling her back against my chest. She lets out a soft sigh, her body melting into mine, and I press a slow, lingering kiss to the top of her head, breathing her in.
She’s perfect in my arms.
She belongs here.
I don’t fucking want to let her go.
Minutes pass, the water cooling around us, and I know we need to get out before I actually lose all reason. I pull her up with me, stepping out of the tub. She doesn’t say anything, just watches me as I grab a towel and wrap it around her, taking my time, drying every inch of her, memorizing her.
She just stands there, looking at me.
Watching me like she’s trying to figure out what the fuck is happening between us.
Like she’s trying to make sense of why she’s here with me.
I don’t have a fucking hairdryer.
Because no woman has ever invaded my space like she just did.
Well, invaded is the wrong word.
Because I kidnapped her.
And I have no intention of letting her leave.
I carry her to my bedroom, laying her down on my bed, her damp hair splayed against my pillows. The sheets swallow her up, making her look even smaller, more delicate.
Mine.
I grab another towel to dry her hair, but by the time I turn around, she’s already passed out. Completely knocked out.
I exhale sharply, staring at her for a moment. The way her breathing has evened out, the way her body is curled up under my sheets like she belongs there.
Fuck.
I throw the towel onto the floor and run a hand through my damp hair. I need to get out of these wet clothes. The soaked fabric clings to me, heavy and uncomfortable, a reminder that I dragged her into the bathtub fully dressed like a fucking idiot.
I strip everything off, my shirt, my pants, my boxers, all of it landing in a heap on the floor. I don’t give a fuck. Right now, all I care about is her.
She shifts in her sleep, rolling onto her side, her leg bending up just enough to give me a perfect fucking view of her ass.
For fuck’s sake.
I grit my teeth, forcing myself to look away.
I almost regret my choice of being a gentleman tonight.
Almost.
But then I exhale, shoving the thought away as I carefully slide her fully under the sheets, tucking her in. She’s so fucking small. Even with my massive bed, she barely takes up any space, looking soft and fragile and like she was meant to be here.
I hesitate for a second, then say fuck it and climb in next to her, pulling her into my arms.
Her body molds against mine instinctively, like she knows where she’s supposed to be, like she knows she’s mine.
And for the first time in a very, very long time, I fall asleep peacefully.