Chapter 16
Rico
I’ve never allowed a living soul outside of Constantine to enter my home.
It’s not that I only don’t enjoy the company or require to fake the energy to entertain, my home has always been mine.
I mean that in the sense of every detail, right down to the nook and cranny, has been modified for me.
No fluorescent lighting because it makes me want to rip my eyeballs out. Soundproof rooms to prevent noise from traveling and disturbing my peace. Softly padded hardwood floors with an open space for my pacing.
Everything within these walls allows me to breathe with ease.
And yet the very same can be said for the beauty in my arms.
The safe house proved to no longer be an option for me. Not after what I’ve done. Not after what she's unlocked within me. I’ll answer for my actions soon. And when I do I will be a man without regrets.
“Do you have a thing for carrying women?” She asks, a quizzical brow raised.
I glance down at her. Even hair askew, coated with blood and human remains she’s quite remarkable. Decadent even. I’ve never felt the temptation to taste someone before, but I find myself fighting the urge to lick the sweat from her skin.
“No.”
Her lashes bat up at me with exaggeration. “I’m honored.” Her voice oozes in a tartly sweetness that I’ve come to know as her signature sarcasm.
My damn lip twitches.
“I’m perfectly capable of walking,” she grumbles.
“I’m well aware,” I reply dryly.
She insists, pouting like a petulant child, “Then put me down.”
In response I hold her closer. The weight of her against me is comfortable. Too comfortable. Fuck.
I attempt to reason it with rationale and not for my own personal gain. “Your legs are weak. You’ll only stumble and fall like a newborn fawn.”
Her lips twist with distaste. “Is that why you call me gazzella?”
I hadn’t meant to. Truly, I hadn’t. They were mine to keep. Mine to secretly obsess over and over in my head until I got sick of it. Sick of her. Except she’s a hyper fixation I can’t free myself from.
“Don’t go fishing for compliments, Imogen,” I say flatly. Her face sours. I sigh. I further explain, “If I had truly thought of you as a clumsy creature I would’ve called you Bambi, but I didn’t.”
“And gazzella isn’t in the same vein?” She argues. I’m beginning to think she likes to argue for the sake of arguing. At least where I’m concerned. I can’t help but find it. . .amusing. It’s a first. If I think about it too much I’ll only send myself down a rabbit hole.
After doing the retinal scan I carry us inside the elevator that leads straight to my penthouse. As the doors close I can practically feel her anger.
I look down to find her staring at her battered fingers. A mixture of dried and wet blood is buried beneath the nails. An unpleasant feeling turns in my stomach. As if someone has taken a knife and keeps twisting it.
I had felt the same when she was bound to the chair. It left a rotten taste in my mouth.
And the fucking game of Russian Roulette.
There was fire licking my skin then. It had turned my vision a scarlet red.
I knew before the game had started that each of those soldiers would be a dead man.
But watching the satisfaction upon their faces with each tear or shiver that came from her?
That was something that couldn’t be answered for. Death was the only option.
I could chalk up my reaction to a primal instinct. She is my captive. Primally I was only protecting what I had marked as mine.
But I know better.
“You might not have noticed this about yourself,” I begin.
Her head slightly tilts upwards to let me know she’s listening.
“but I’ve never seen someone move the way you do.
Even fighting you’re light on your feet.
Quick. Agile. It’s as if you’ve rehearsed every movement to perfection.
But that can’t be true. It all just comes naturally to you.
The fine balance between delicacy and resilience. The gracefulness of a gazzella.”
There’s a pregnant pause. For the first time in my life I don’t enjoy the silence. I hear my own heart beating in my ear in a maddening rush and I fight the urge to slam my hands over my ears.
She shifts in my arms but I don’t dare look at her. “You can’t say things like that.” She utters softly.
“I can’t tell the truth?”
“No,” she responds bitterly. Compelled, I look at her. Her eyes blaze with a fresh wave of unshed tears. I don’t understand.
“Why not?”
“Because my captor shouldn’t say something that profound and beautiful,” she says lividly. “You don’t have the fucking right. Not when no one else thinks the same.”
“Why would anyone think differently?”
She opens her mouth but thinks twice and snaps it shut. I hear her then grind down on her teeth. The force of it is enough to cause her molars to ache.
I have the urge to soothe her jaw. Looking away I think better of it. Something tells me she’ll only bite my fingers off.
The doors to the elevator open and I carry her through the threshold.
“Let me down. Now.” It’s not a request. It’s a demand. A cold and harsh one.
“You’ll fall,” I remind her.
“I don’t care. Let me fucking go,” she chokes out.
Unlike me I let her down with ease. I come down to my haunches and gently place her feet on the floor. I don’t move as she comes to a stand. I stay close, too close. As she goes to take her first step her leg wobbles. My hands fly out to grab her hips to steady her. She stands shock still.
Taking a breath she orders icily, “Don’t fucking touch me.”
Studying her I take in every detail to help me understand what she’s feeling at this moment.
Because I know it’s more than just anger.
Flushed cheeks. Tired and watery eyes. Mouth firm.
Jaw set. But her breaths are coming in too fast for it to be just that one emotion. There’s more and I can’t decipher it.
“Rico,” she says my name almost pleadingly. This time it cracks. Her hand clutches her throat.
I remove my hands. Yet I can still feel her flesh beneath my fingertips. They leave embers. Embers waiting to be stoked by the touch of her once more.
What is this damn feeling? And why is she the only one to evoke them?
“Your bedroom is the first door on the right with an en-suite bathroom,” I tell her.
With a slight jerk of her head she hobbles down the hallway. Never once does she stop to take in her new surroundings. She keeps her head down.
The sour taste returns in my mouth tenfold.
I keep my eye on her until she enters the room. I expect to hear the door slam shut, but the light illuminates into the hallway.
I don’t know what that means and I feel far too exhausted to try and figure it out.
Lazily, I walk over to the couch and allow myself to sink into it. I hang my head on the back of it and expel a long breath.
Fuck, what have I gotten myself into?
Kicking my legs wide and spreading them out I run an exhausted hand down my face. Sleep will do me good. Perhaps when I wake up tomorrow I’ll have all the answers I’m searching for. Maybe when I wake up this hyper fixation with her will be long gone.
You can tell a lie so much that it becomes the truth.
And as I hear the shower running from the door being open I tell myself another lie.
La mia gazzella means nothing to me.
How long must I repeat it for it to become the truth?