Chapter 5 Allegra
ALLEGRA
Only when he’s gone can I finally breathe.
I sag against the pillows and pull the duvet closer, needing the warmth and weight of it.
I hold it to my chest as my eyes adjust to the dark room.
Moonlight streams through the stained-glass windows casting soft purple and red light into the strange space with its dark opulence and its vaulted ceilings.
I turn my face to the pillow beside mine, but it’s a mistake. His scent lingers here, aged leather with a dark, woodsy undertone, a scent that leaves a trace of raw masculinity in the air and I hate the fact that I’m breathing it in.
Fuck. Something is seriously wrong with me. Cassian Trevino is a brutal man. He is the villain. I should not be attracted to him. The opposite. I should be repelled.
And yet, as I lay on my back and stare up at the ceiling, my mind revisits the feel of his hands on me. His eyes.
His mouth.
Fuck. His mouth.
He put me in his bed, not the one in the adjoining room. I know what that means, don’t I?
I reach to switch on the lamp on the nightstand.
The light is warm and just bright enough for me to make out that a mural paints this ceiling too.
I noticed it all when they brought me in.
He lives in a church. Old St. Anastasia’s.
It’s part of the history of Devil’s Peak.
We studied it in school, how it was built in homage to the church in Verona.
This one is not as old, obviously, but I pored over the photos in our textbooks when I was younger.
My class, when I used to attend them before I was home-schooled, had even taken a field trip here.
It wasn’t used for worship anymore by then, it was more of a monument going to ground. A near-ruin.
I also recall the darker history of it, how people disappeared in the catacombs.
How the priests of St. Anastasia wielded their power in those dark days.
But no secret rooms were ever found. There were no hidden dungeons.
So maybe they were just rumors. Tall tales that took on a life of their own over the centuries.
I recall talk of the church being sold to some secret buyer and the ridiculous amount of money he was pouring into it.
There was so much speculation as to who it was.
I remember the whispers that it was sold to a crime family but, like everything else, the next story came and this one was forgotten and the town moved on.
I push the duvet back and get out of the bed.
Soft carpet cushions my feet as I wrap the throw that was at the foot of the bed over my shoulders.
I cross the room to the oversized, eight-sided baptismal font.
It’s big enough for an adult to sit inside.
The stone is cold to the touch. I circle it, taking in the worn carvings.
I recall from my lessons that this was imported from a ruined cathedral in Italy, I don’t remember which.
The building is about four hundred years old, but this is even older.
I wonder how many others have touched it like I am now.
How many babies were baptized inside it.
How many adults drowned in it. Because that, too, is part of the church’s history.
I shiver with a sudden chill that has nothing to do with the temperature in the room.
I hug the blanket closer. My clothes are tatters on the floor.
I pick them up and put them in the trash can where his bloody shirt is and walk over to his closet.
I open the door and switch on the light.
It’s not what I expect. Not at all. The interior is a modern, huge closet without a single empty shelf.
I touch the edge of a jacket sleeve. Cassian Trevino apparently likes clothes. A lot of them. Definitely not something I’d have guessed. I walk through, read the designer labels, some I don’t even recognize, most Italian. He’s vain. Well, someone as beautiful as he is, I get it.
Looking through several drawers, I take out cufflinks to study them before putting them back into their organized little cubbies, rolling my eyes at the T-shirts folded with precision and sorted by color until I find a worn wool sweater.
I take it and pull it on. It’s like a dress on me and I try not to notice the faint scent of his aftershave.
My mind instantly conjures up the image of him crouched before me, hands on my hips, eyes at the level of my pussy.
That’s followed by the sensation of his tongue on me, licking me.
It wasn’t a small taste, either. It was full on.
It was him putting his stamp on me. Him letting me know he could do whatever he wanted to do to me.
I strip off the sweater and toss it on the floor.
I want something that doesn’t smell like him, so I take a button-down shirt out of a plastic dry cleaner’s bag instead and wonder if he sends everything out to be cleaned or if he does his own laundry.
I recall his bare feet. How strange it had looked to see them. How common place. Like he’s human.
No, Allegra. Cassian Trevino is not human. He’s a monster.
I walk out of the closet and into the bathroom.
The door has a lock. I’m grateful for that.
It’s beautiful, modern, just as the closet was, but in keeping with the building with the same stone and marble I’d glimpsed in the main church.
There’s a large glass-walled shower with old fashioned brass fixtures and a separate tub.
Needing to wash his touch off me, I decide to have a shower.
I slip the shirt back off and step under the flow of water.
As soon as I take the lid off his body wash and sniff it, though, I know it’s in vain. His scent is everywhere.
I don’t shampoo my hair, but scrub my body, trying to ignore the ache in my pussy when my fingers move over it.
I’m not going to do it. I’m not going to touch myself in his house, in his shower, with him on my mind.
Hell, he’s probably got cameras in here and is watching me now.
I scan the corners of the room, paranoid, but don’t see anything.
Still, I hurry and dry off, then put his shirt back on, rolling up the sleeves until my hands are free, and buttoning the top buttons.
Since I only see his toothbrush on the edge of the sink, I rinse my mouth with the mouthwash and forego brushing my teeth.
I braid my damp hair and walk back into the bedroom half-expecting him to be back, but he’s not.
I glance at the door, but decide it’s smart to heed his warning, at least tonight.
I don’t want to confront him again, not yet.
I’m too tired. I go back to bed, switch out the light and lay down, looking at the huge stained-glass window on the opposite wall, taking in the scene of St. John baptizing Jesus.
It's beautiful. And I’m not sure if it’s my imagination, but I smell incense.
No, it can’t be. No mass has been held here for decades.
And Cassian Trevino is certainly not the church-going type.
Hell, he converted this beautiful part of our town’s history into his private home.
I can only imagine the things that have taken place here.
In this bed, even. I mean, who has leather restraints in his nightstand drawer?
I’m curious to look inside that drawer and see what else he has, but I shake my head and tell myself I shouldn’t want to know.
I turn onto my side and reach back to make sure my hair covers the back of my neck, my fingers brushing the marks.
They almost feel like normal skin, not raised or anything, at least not the old ones.
They heal over time. It’s barely been a week since the last ones, though.
It’s a spot chosen with care so no one would see.
But someone did see.
I think about Amal and Daniel. Although we’re not related by blood, they’re like brother and sister to me.
I’ve known them all my life. Malek worked with my father for as long as I can remember.
Even though I don’t trust him, at least I know he’ll keep his own kids safe. He won’t let Cassian get to them.
My mind wanders to my brother. How long will it take Michael to pay Cassian back? What did he do exactly anyway? And what did Cassian say? Not to get my hopes up? What did that mean?
Although I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep, somehow, I feel myself drifting and I don’t fight it. I welcome the oblivion of sleep.