11. Melody #2
My rage builds again as I sweep up the mess on his perfect fucking hardwood floors. The mind-blowing orgasm did not take away my other emotions, thank you very much. If this is what he means by being a good girl—cleaning his goddamn house and taking his dick—I can really only promise half of that.
But a hundred million dollars is a metric shit ton of money.
Per his stupid contract, I wouldn't even have to raise the kid.
I'd hand it over and be on my merry way.
Part of me jumps for joy at the freedom he's offering.
God, I could really set myself up nicely in Mexico with even a fraction of that money.
I huff out a breath of frustration. Am I really so desperate that I'm entertaining this? Being a brood mare for a psychotic rich boy? The clinks of broken ceramic in the dustbin answer me: yes, I am.
I don't have to make it easy for him, though.
The instant the floor is spotless, Dante pokes his head back in the door. "Perfect timing. They're here."
"What?"
Before the word is even out of my mouth, a gaggle of well-dressed women and one man pour in. Everyone talks at once, grabbing me and throwing measuring tape around—I shudder and avert my eyes, as I don't want to know the circumference of my waistline—while the man runs his hands through my hair.
"Dante," I yell over the din of voices. "What the fuck is this?"
He smirks. "You need to be presentable for the Consortium." And then the fucker disappears.
"You strike me as a winter," a blonde woman says as she holds fabric swatches up to my face.
"Definitely a winter. We'll do white gold, then. Black or green?" A stunningly beautiful redhead addresses me, but I have no fucking idea what they're talking about.
"What? Black or green what?" I stammer.
"Your signature color. You'll need to match Mr. Lyons, of course."
What the fuck did he drop me into? There was no mention of being paraded about, there was no mention of this… whatever this is. Marry him, pop out a spawn, and move on with my hundred million. "Black, I guess?"
"Perfect choice, darling!" the man playing with my hair chimes in. "Black goes with everything ."
"And she'll look positively divine with the shades of violet to match."
Well, thank fuck I didn't choose green. Then I'd look like that cartoon clown villain.
I can't quite catch the rest of their overlapping conversation, but I think I'm going to be dressed to the nines for…
something. Remembering the horrifically ugly wedding dress Dante stuffed me in, I grimace.
These people better not be associated with that.
"Something wrong, honey?" The blonde woman lays a gentle hand on my shoulder.
"Oh, uh. No. I mean…" I chew on my bottom lip. "Was the, um, wedding dress… was that your work?"
A chorus of laughter erupts around me, and I flush red all the way to the tips of my ears.
God, I hate this—I'm not cut out for this.
And to top it all off, that itching under my skin has started to surface again.
The faint grinding that I swear I can hear buzzes at the base of my skull.
I clench my hands around the hem of the T-shirt, and it takes all of my strength to keep from ripping it.
"So sorry, honey. No, that was not us. Your husband didn't give us any notice, and he grabbed something off the rack in Center City." She pouts and twirls one of my messy curls. "Unfortunate. I could have whipped something up with proper notice!"
Dante strolls back into the room, eyes glued to his phone. "Doesn't matter. Didn't need a fairy-tale wedding. I trust you all have what you need now?"
I can't get a read on this jerk. One minute he's being sweeter than honey, the next it's like I'm an annoyance to wave away like a fly.
I glare in his general direction while the gaggle of…
whoever they are… pull me every which way.
I'm still laser-focused on him when a bright flash goes off, and I yelp, stumbling backwards from the small crowd.
I can't do this. Fuck. The violence within me wants to rage, to slash, to feel the hot spray of blood on my skin. I rip my arms away from their oddly strong holds and cringe into myself. I don't want to be like this. I don't want to wonder what their insides look like.
But I fucking do. And Dante notices. He finally looks up from his phone and furrows his brow. "Everybody out!"
The group is eerily silent as they file out of the room, their footsteps echoing down the grand staircase of this monstrosity of a house.
Every footfall pierces my eardrums and rockets around in my skull, ping-ponging against every single nerve.
I need to rip and tear. With clenched fists, my nails dig little half-moons into my palm.
I will all of my focus on the pain. That's something I can control. That's something tangible. If I press just a bit further, maybe, maybe it'll sate me. Maybe it'll all be okay.
Maybe I'll be normal.
"Where did you go?" Dante appears before me as I reopen my eyes, something like concern written across his face.
But I can't answer. All I can think about is the wet heat that erupts when I first bury my knife into a jugular vein.
The thought should make me sick—it would make any sane person sick—but it doesn't. That part of me was stolen.
That part of me died when Charlie died. When he pushed me too far, after a decade.
A decade of leering gazes, wandering hands, filthy words. A decade of furious slurs. A decade of abuse.
And I ended it. At the cost of my sanity, I ended it—I ended him . And all I want to do is bring back that euphoria. The scents, the sensations, the glorious feeling of pure fucking freedom.
Dante is saying something to me, but I can't hear him.
I'm lost in my own mind, reliving each and every slash and hack of the kitchen knife.
A laugh forces its way from my lips—it wasn't even sharp.
I ripped and tore through Charlie with a cheap, dull steak knife.
God, I need it. I need it again like I need air.
And so I run. I run through this monstrosity of a house with Dante on my heels, yelling something as I frantically pass by room after room. The shadows dance in the edges of my vision as I sprint down the stairs, down, down to the kitchen and—
Into a wall. A wall of unyielding muscle. Calloused hands clench around my shoulders as I look up with tears streaming down my face.
Roman. Dante's… lackey. My blood roars in my ears as he cocks a half-smile.
Something cold and sharp pricks my arm as my vision goes blurry; everything loses its edges.
The colors blend together, and my head feels heavy, oh-so-heavy.
Dante's face pops up behind Roman's, and their hair melds together.
Midnight black into chestnut brown.
Scarred and grizzled skin into smooth and unblemished.
A high-pitched buzzing in my ears overpowers the rush of my blood. Until everything goes black.