Chapter 11
Roxy
“This is a disaster. A complete and utter disaster. Do you think they’ll kill us if we make a run for it?”
I roll my eyes at Yuri’s theatrics. Of all the times for him to start caring about these events, he chooses now.
Ever since we arrived at the bride’s house, the courtyard and main hall have been swarming with men, some more subtle than others, carrying weapons.
This was all the confirmation Yuri needed to decide that we are dealing with a criminal organization and are about to be sleeping with the fishes.
Beatrice, my bride for the day, decided that a fitting form of rebellion against this forced wedding would be to hack at her own hair.
Now she looks like she just escaped an asylum because, on top of the hair and makeup that look like something straight out of a horror movie, she’s wearing a black dress.
Black. From head to toe. Granted, the woman has a body that would make half the male population drop to their knees, but this isn't the dress she ordered.
“Beatrice, let’s sort out the dress. I’m sure we can have the right one delivered to the venue in thirty minutes,” I say, praying she’ll agree.
“No. If I’m being forced to marry Satan, I’m going to do it dressed for his home,” she snaps back. I don't think I should mention that black seems more the Grim Reaper's style than Satan's, so I let it go.
“The hair, at least?” I grimace, hoping for some kind of concession.
She studies me for a few seconds before finally sighing. “Just even it out a little. NOTHING MORE.”
A victorious smile spreads across my lips. “Deal. Where can I find a pair of scissors?”
“Upstairs, third door on the left, on the bathroom counter.”
After I manage the hair crisis, we finally make it to the venue. It’s a restaurant on the shore of a lake, surrounded by lush greenery and decorated in shades of white and green to complement the natural setting.
“Roxy? For the ceremony, there are still a few garlands to hang behind the gazebo,” a man from the restaurant staff tells me.
I take the box of garlands from him and head toward the back of the gazebo, savoring a few moments of peace.
Back here, the event’s hustle and bustle fades to a dull roar, and I only now realize how much my ears were ringing.
I scan the area for the bare spot, but I frown when I can’t find a single empty tree.
A twig snaps to my left, and a shiver snakes down my spine.
I’m two hundred yards from the restaurant. Two hundred yards too far from safety.
Why the hell didn’t I ask Yuri to help me? The bitter taste of regret coats my tongue, but I refuse to turn back.
From the same direction, I hear shuffling, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
RUN!
The command triggers no physical reaction. This goddamn fear has me paralyzed. I can go toe to toe with anyone, but not him.
Not the man who stole my childhood, the one who gave me nightmares for days on end, filled with the image of my mother’s vacant eyes.
In his desperation, my father hadn’t even bothered to cover her body before he pulled me out of that closet.
The moment I stepped into the kitchen, my world had shattered into a million pieces.
My mother used to call me amorino, her "little love." My mother let me dress in sequins and glitter. My mother told me how beautiful I was. My mother made sure I always had fluffy socks on my feet because they were always cold.
I already know there are tears in my eyes the moment I feel him less than three feet away.
“You didn’t like my flower?” His voice is warped, distorted, and a tremor takes over my body.
He’s so close I can feel his body heat against my back, and even though every alarm in my head is screaming at me to do something, I can’t move.
I knew he would come for me one day. I don’t know how he didn’t find me in that closet that night, I don’t know why he never approached me before now, and I don’t know why I can’t break through this wretched numbness.
His hand, covered in a leather glove, makes contact with my neck. My muscles must react on pure instinct, because I lunge six feet forward and whirl around to face him.
He’s wearing a Halloween mask—a Guy Fawkes mask—a long, brown wool coat, and boots.
“I like how red looks on you. It makes you look more like her.”
He doesn’t have to tell me who "her" is. I remember her wearing red to every party, in all its different shades. Her black hair and olive skin glowed every time she wore that color. A color I will now eradicate from my wardrobe even if it is my favorite.
“Why her?” is all my brain can form, and I know my tears don’t escape his notice.
For a few moments, he just studies me, then takes a step in my direction.
Before he can get any closer, a blade slices through the air and sinks into his back. The sound of his agony is drowned out by Damien’s voice, shouting from maybe a hundred feet away.
“ROXANNE, RUN!”
Somehow, his voice unlocks my body, and I do exactly that.
I don’t look back. I don’t know how far I’ve gotten, but I can’t have made it more than fifty yards before I stop dead in my tracks.
I can’t leave him alone with that psychopath. Damien may be the head of the Polish mafia, but that man murdered four women in their own homes, leaving nothing behind but a goddamn flower. He’s not stupid.
The five-year-old version of me is screaming to keep running, to put as much distance as possible between myself and the man who killed my mother—and with her, any chance at a loving childhood.
But the Roxy I am now can only see the image of Damien from that morning when he hadn’t slept a wink all night for my sake.
Damien, who always breaks into a full-toothed grin when he sees me walking toward him.
This infuriating man who has somehow gotten under my skin.
I barely take ten steps back before he's striding toward me, brow furrowed, closing the distance until he pins me against the nearest tree trunk.
“Why the hell are you still here?” he asks, his voice tight with anger as his hands cup my face.
“You were in danger,” I reply weakly, slightly embarrassed that I’m showing I care enough about his safety to risk my own.
A look of surprise flashes across his face at my confession. In the next second, his mouth covers mine, and every bit of anxiety, every tense molecule in my body, surrenders. He tastes like chamomile tea and smoke, a combination that makes me pull him even closer.
It's the kind of kiss that makes time slow down, that turns the noise of the world into a distant murmur. I tell myself I’m just allowing a few seconds of release, a few seconds where I don’t have to keep this shield up.
A few seconds where I want to believe that someone like him wants only me. Just as I am.
His hands slide down to my waist, pulling me flush against him. The moment our bodies make full contact, a soft groan escapes my lips because I can feel just how much this kiss is affecting him. And that, somehow, gives me even more boldness, more courage.
When my tongue touches his, I hear him let out a guttural sound as he deepens the kiss. His lips move to my cheek, then my neck, before returning to hover just above my mouth.
“Never. You never put yourself in danger for me. For anyone. If that danger is me, you take whatever weapon you have and you save yourself. If I tell you to run, you run, Roxanne. Because you don’t want to unleash the monster inside me, which seethes at the very thought of you getting hurt.”
His confession should scare me. It should make me want to run. But if I needed any confirmation that something inside me is broken, it’s this moment when I pull him back to me for another kiss.
My reaction seems to surprise him for a second, but then he takes control, kissing me as if it’s the last time he’ll ever get the chance. When he breaks away from my lips, I see his tormented gaze just before he is about to speak.
“He got away,” I whisper, somehow relieved because I know the man in front of me wouldn’t have escaped without a scratch, and that thought makes something in my chest tighten.
I hear shouts from the direction of the restaurant, and we both turn toward the venue, less than a hundred and fifty yards away.
So close to help, and yet so far. I never thought he would come after me in such a public place, with so many people around, but this is just more proof that he won’t stop until he gets his hands on me.
“For someone with a blade stuck between his shoulder blades, he was certainly in good shape,” he says. “Hey, look at me.” Damien’s hand cups my chin. “We’ll catch him, s?onko.”
“If you hadn’t been nearby, he would have taken me, and I wouldn’t have done a thing.
My whole body just locks up when he’s near,” I say, my words detached from the storm raging inside me.
I didn’t fight. I didn’t scream. I just stood there like one of those stupid characters in horror movies who sees the killer and just stares with wide eyes.
“That man killed your mother while you were just a few feet away, Roxanne. The mind has its own tricks for getting us through certain moments. Yours freezes. Next time, you’ll be more prepared.”
He speaks so calmly, with so much certainty, that I could almost believe him. But Ivette's voice echoes in my head, telling me I can't think straight, that I'm going to die at the hands of that psychopath. Because I'm stupid. Because I'm incapable.
After I pull myself together enough to look him in the eye, I murmur, “Thank you. Though the only reason you’re here is because you were following me, and that doesn’t make you the hero in this story, Damien.”
A smile touches his lips. “I don’t want to be your hero, Roxanne. I want to be the blade that peels away your fears, your enemies, and your nightmares, one by one.”
Why does that sound so convincing? And why does my heart leap at his words? God, I really need to stop postponing that therapy appointment.
“Marry me.”
His words make my eyes go wide.
“Excuse me? Can you repeat that, please? I think I must have hit my head when I was running from that madman, because it sounded like you just asked me to marry you.”
“You heard me right. You need protection. Your apartment is clearly compromised. If I could, I'd lay my entire organization’s protection at your feet, but I’ve got a goddamn Council on my back that won’t tolerate me diverting my attention and resources to a woman who has no official role in my life. ”
“I know I keep asking this, but have you been taking your meds?”
“Not even a whole bottle could make me stop wanting you, Roxanne. Give me six months. Six months for me to find that bastard and to keep you safe. I know deep down you feel this, this pull we have, but I won’t force your hand. I just want you under the same roof as me.”
I look at his face, at the few freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks, at his caramel-colored eyes that glitter when he looks at me.
“Are you actually serious?” I ask, still in shock.
“Deadly serious. It’s six months, Roxanne.
In two months, the vote for the organization’s leadership will take place, and I won’t deny that having a wife would play well with all the conservative old geezers on the Council, if it helps you sleep better at night knowing I get something out of this marriage, too. ”
I turn my back to him, trying to gather my thoughts.
I can’t accept this. I barely know him. He barely knows me.
I could ask Luna for help, but the last thing I want is to draw attention to her.
I would never forgive myself if something happened to her because of me.
My uncle lives in Austin, and while he’d support me through every trip to the police station, he’d be powerless against this monster.
If I go home… I don’t even want to think about the uproar that would cause.
Ivette would surely lose her mind, screaming that I’d brought a murderer down on them, and my father would probably stay silent, just as he has all these years. He’d probably even agree with Ivette.
The irony of it is that the only person who seems willing to put everything on hold for me is a man who has been stalking me for almost a year.
“I’ll think about it,” is the only answer I can give him. “I have to get back to this wedding now.”
He doesn’t say anything, but as I walk past him, he takes my hand and presses a switchblade into my palm.
“If you’re ever near him again, you stick the blade right here,” he says, pointing to the right side of my stomach. “You’ll hit the liver. The blade goes in easily, and it hurts like hell. It’ll give you enough time to get away.”
I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
His concern for my well-being is so intense it’s overwhelming.
After my mother died, I would have given anything to have someone who cared that much about me.
With no other family around, my father closed himself off, and Ivette made sure to show me every single day how unwanted I was.
I’m already several yards away when I turn back and say, “Thank you, Damien.”
I know he sees in my eyes that I’m not just talking about the knife, and that’s enough.