CHAPTER 10
No stores I’ve ever bought from has anything like this.
Not this lightweight fabric with the little blue flowers, not this design or style.
It’s pretty and feminine, everything I’d shy away from usually, choosing black and pantsuits.
Clothes are armor, and everything I picked to wear has always been political.
I lower it and step into it, shimmying it up my body until I can pull the straps onto my shoulders and smooth out the wrinkles.
I ignore how the movements send pain through me.
It’s a corset style on top, the cups molding to the shape of my breasts before it pushes them up, tight at the waist and flares with the skirt.
Knox sits in the chair, one ankle resting on his knee, his hand over his mouth as he watches. His eyes move down me in a way that feels heated.
I’ve had men stare, had them very obviously appreciate the way I look. They don’t hide it, and it isn’t subtle, but the way he does it is quiet. I know he likes what he sees, but he doesn’t make it obvious. He hates it.
“So?” I prompt him.
He grunts in response.
That’s likely the only thing I’ll get from him, so I tug another item of clothing from the bag.
He really got me everything — jeans and shorts, some leggings and sweaters, sneakers and boots I’ve always wanted to wear but never could.
They’re brown with light stitching, a short heel and pointed toe. There’s even a hat to match.
I get about halfway through the lot when he stands up and starts making his way out of the room, shoulders stiff, his steps heavy.
“I’m going to get us dinner,” Is all he says before the door slams shut behind him.
Being unlikeable has never been an issue for me before; it’s why I am the way I am. I behave the way I do because I don’t care what anyone thinks. Or at least I thought I didn’t.
What does it fucking matter, anyway? I’m going to be off this ranch in two months, back in my house with the marble floors and modern décor, back with the money in my bank account and the world at my feet.
Who gives a shit if a cowboy from the ass end of nowhere likes me. It’s not like I’ve tried.
Who the fuck needs friends when I can have whatever I want? I can end any threat, kill my enemies and go to bed on a mattress that can sleep ten and wake up to do it all again.
In fact, I don’t want company. I tried that with Rio, and he betrayed me. Knox would likely do the same given half the chance, I’m sure.
Grabbing the bags of clothes, I take them all into the bedroom, emptying them out onto the bed.
I’ve lost the spark to try on anything else, but they all fit, so I’m sure the rest will too.
Taking the denim shorts off, I grab a pair of leggings from the pile and a cami, pulling them on, careful as I position them over the wound on my thigh and ribs.
There was a brush in the bag, so I run that through my hair, catching on the knots and tangles since I’ve only been using my fingers to brush it out in the morning.
Luckily there was a toothbrush, still in the original packaging in the drawer in the bathroom, but I have nothing.
None of my home comforts, not even a damn razor.
I’ve no idea how people live like this.
“Elena,” Knox returns, slamming his way in, which seems his default setting.
My feet slap on the floor as I make my way through. Despite the lack of most things, it feels good to wear underwear, I won’t lie.
He places two plates down onto the worn table in the kitchen, some kind of meat and vegetables with creamed potatoes on the side.
“Sit.” He grunts, turning to the cabinet to pull two short glasses out. He takes his own seat and reaches for the bottle I left there earlier.
I slide into the chair opposite him, the smell of the food hitting me and making my stomach rumble. He quirks a brow, the sound reaching his ears.
“Do you ever cook in the house?” I ask, lifting my fork.
“Rarely.” He’s hunched over his plate, taking large forkfuls into his mouth. It’s like the man never eats, but that’s not possible, he’s stacked with muscle and so fucking tall.
“Why?”
“What’s with the questions?” He cuts his eyes to me. “Eat your food.”
I put the fork into my mouth. I realize it’s beef stewed in some kind of tomato sauce with onions. It’s good, what I assume hearty tastes like.
“When I buy groceries,” He sighs, “I buy for the workers, not the house. It’s rare there’s enough cash to buy two lots of groceries, so I eat with them.”
Something in my stomach twists. My father did this when he fed Rossi all that money, he did this. I didn’t care then, but I didn’t understand; I still don’t, not truly.
“Right,” I nod and spoon another lot into my mouth. “You cook it?”
“No, that’s Chase.”
“Ah,” I recall the cute redhead, “Him.”
“I see he introduced himself.”
“Something like that,” I chuckle.
“Don’t fuck with my guys, Elena,” He grumbles.
“You really think the worst of me, don’t you?” I reach for the glass he filled for me and take a sip of the harsh alcohol.
“Have you given me any other reason not to?” He counters, “History doesn’t lie, and the De Luca family as well as Rossi fucked us all over.”
“I get it,” I snap at him.
But he just shrugs. “If you don’t like the truth, then it’s best we don’t talk at all. You do your thing, and I’ll wait for the results, if there are any.”
I laugh humorlessly. “You think that hurts me, Knox?”
He stays silent.
“It doesn’t,” I grab my glass and down the contents before I get up from the table, “I’ve been underestimated my whole life, tossed aside because I’m a woman who couldn’t possibly have anything to contribute in this life.
Yes, we are bad people, but I have never pretended to be otherwise.
And for the record, half of the deals that were made were negotiated by me.
He went rogue with Rossi. I never would have agreed. ”
“Because you’re so good?” He leans back in his chair and pins me with his stare. “Let’s not forget where you come from and who you are.”
“Oh, I’m not forgetting,” I jab, “Because at least I am someone.”
I turn and start making my way to my room, grabbing the sneakers to shove onto my feet before I head for the front door. The lack of movement makes my departure far less dramatic than I’d like it to be, but fuck being in here.
“Elena,” His stern voice calls after me, “Eat your food.”
“Fuck you,” I yank the door open and slam it for good measure.
Dusk has settled around us, turning the sky a deep dusty purple, not quite dark yet but dark enough that the floodlight triggers when it senses me.
I don’t pick a direction to go, but I find myself walking toward the paddock with the bull, the animal standing in the middle of the pen, looking toward the herd of cattle several fences over.
It doesn’t seem feasible that an animal of that size and nature can look like a statue, but he does. The night air is still warm, and the hum of flies buzzes at my ears, the noises of the ranch quieter now it’s settling into night.
“You’re just lonely,” I mumble, leaning on the fence.
A huffing sounds, somewhat muted with the distance, and the bull shakes his head, tail swishing.
“What’d you do to land in there, hm?” He moves slightly, turning to me at an angle that allows him to watch both me and his herd.
Beyond the paddock, I can see Knox’s men working, shoveling something into a wheelbarrow at the stables.
In the city at this time, the roads would still be packed with cars, horns honking, shouting and hollering joining the chaos.
There’d be the odd misfire of a car that would leave people questioning whether it was a gunshot or not, and crowds of people walking down the street toward the strip with the bars and restaurants.
It would be alive, chaotic and messy, not this tranquil quiet where the sounds of owls and crickets are the only things to accompany the thoughts inside your head.
I have yet to decide whether I like it.
Being born and raised in loud, messy violence makes the silence almost deafening. I think I was five when I saw a man killed, his brain splattered up the wall after my father pulled the trigger. I don’t remember why he did it, just that I was standing at the door to the kitchen, eating a cookie.
I still remember the way the gun shot had rang inside my ears, and how the blood had sounded when it hit the wall.
It wasn’t until I was fourteen that I killed someone for the first time. I had been sitting in on a meeting my father was having with some of his dealers, why I don’t know, just that he had wanted me there. To learn his ways perhaps, to meet the men and women that feed the business.
They hadn’t been what I was expecting. Hollywood’s portrayal didn’t look like men with Rolex watches or designer suits, but that’s what these men were. Young, rich, corrupt, with narrow minds and a thirst for power. Power that only money and violence can get you.
“Such a shame you didn’t get your male heir,” One of them had said at the table, “While a beauty she is, it’ll only get her so far. Do you plan to swear someone else in? Perhaps an arranged marriage will work in your favor.”
“My daughter and this family are none of your concern,” My father had responded. My dad was a cruel man, with very little mercy and even less patience, but he did love me. I was his entire world, and to talk ill of me is a slight he wouldn’t let go of lightly.
“I’m just saying, Mr. De Luca.” They’d gotten up from the table, a lit cigar between their fingers. “Women don’t do well under pressure. It’s the hormones.”
The whole table except me and my father laughed. At my expense.
“Tell me, do you bleed?” They’d asked me directly.