Chapter 11
The night misses the moon tonight, my bedside lamp the only light illuminating my room.
I sit in a pair of tight boy shorts and a loose shirt, one of Ilya’s I slipped into my suitcase.
A comfort so far from home. A reminder of why I’m here.
The deep red cotton drowns me, hitting at mid-thigh and with my wet hair hanging loose, I’m sure I resemble a dead rat.
I pick at the frayed edges, worn from so many years of my nervous habit.
The contacts burn from wearing them almost twenty-four seven, only taking them out to shower. With Rafael refusing to relinquish control over my doorknob, I have no choice but to keep my contacts in. Not wearing glasses, I can lie away, but nothing could explain my unique heterochromia.
Tomorrow, Nova will give me a tour of Cloud Nine and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little nervous.
But I can’t exactly say why. From what Rafael said, I’ll be there more than here, but on the bright side, it gets me away from Dante.
I’m not afraid of him, more afraid of blowing my cover by slitting his throat.
Rafael also gave me a file for each Angel currently employed—thirty-three women and three men who are housed in a location near the club. Thirty-six humans I will have to treat, knowing there is nothing I can do for their situation.
I skipped dinner, instead reviewing each file.
The laundry list of injuries made my body want to rage.
Broken ribs, ligature wounds, periorbital hematomas, head contusions, ecchymosis of the breasts and thighs.
But that’s not the worst—some of these women have suffered torn labias and anal fissures, some have even had forced abortions and tubal ligations.
Although I did notice most of these reported injuries are older than a year.
No significant new injuries have been reported.
It’s a strange contradiction; Rafael seems to care for these women but lets them suffer through such atrocities. Nova claims she’s here by choice but who would choose to live this life?
But then again, who would choose to live the life I do? And it is a choice. Despite what I tell myself sometimes.
Maybe I’m no different from these girls, choosing the difficult path until I’ve fulfilled some purpose. The reason behind the suffering is the choice I’m making, not the suffering itself. I just don’t know why these girls are doing what they do.
Deciding to try to put my thoughts to rest, I close the last file and check my phone one last time before bed.
A new message sits unread on the screen. I click on it, not realizing it was sent only two minutes ago.
Enzo | Still awake?
I debate replying but decide if I’m to grow close enough to these men to gain their trust, I need to be a bit less of a bitch. I can fake it right? Although, before I can type out a reply, three dots dance at the bottom of the screen, then a new message.
Enzo | Or are you meeting me in your dreams?
I never dream. | Me
Enzo | I can change that.
I scoff, sitting up further in bed. I wipe the smile from my lips once I realize it’s there.
Not even the infamous Enzo Alessi can achieve such a feat. | Me
Almost immediately after sending the message, my phone vibrates, Enzo’s name running across the screen. I hesitate a moment before answering.
“Is this going to be a nightly occurrence?”
“Only on nights I’m thinking of you.” His deep timbre calms something in me, something I didn’t even know was turbulent until he spoke. The smooth, rich cadence carries a gentle yet dangerous air, and I find I don’t hate it as much as I’d like to.
“What exactly were you thinking about?”
“Oh, baby, I’m afraid our professional boundaries would be eradicated if I told you exactly what I was thinking about just now.”
A blanket of goosebumps covers my skin. I don’t even know what to say, but I know he heard the little gasp that left my lips because the next thing I know, a deep chuckle filters through the speaker, filling my entire room with his presence.
“Are you nervous about going to Cloud Nine tomorrow?” he asks, seamlessly moving on.
“I’m not,” I say, fiddling with the edges of my shirt again.
“Don’t lie to me,” he commands and I can’t help feeling the desire to obey. The fuck? Maybe it’s been engraved into me over too many torture sessions, but my mind and body almost crave his acceptance. It’s illogical and twisted but it’s there and I feed it willingly.
“Okay… A little. I’ve never been to a club like yours. I don’t know what to expect and I don’t like that feeling.”
“Ah…” He pauses a moment, a shuffling scratch at the speaker and then he’s back. “You’re like Rafael, huh? A planner. You need to know every avenue and possible outcome to feel secure.”
“You say it like it’s a bad thing.” Even though I know he can’t see it, I roll my eyes.
“Not a bad thing at all, just part of who you are. I like getting to know these little things. The devil’s in the details or so they say.” Without taking a breath, he bounces to a new topic, and I get the feeling Enzo might have a little bit of ADHD. “Do you really not dream?”
“Nope.”
“So, what? It’s all black and then bam, you wake up?”
I hesitate, shifting in the bed so I’m lying on my side and place him on speaker, setting the phone on the pillow next to me. “No, it’s not black. I see…memories.”
“Ah. Good ones?”
“What are those?” It slips out before I can censor it, and I stop breathing for a moment.
There’s a faint sound on the other end of the phone. It’s familiar but I can’t pinpoint it. “What are you doing?”
“Writing,” he answers immediately.
“Writing what?”
“A list.”
I pause, waiting for more but nothing. Sighing, I prod him to continue. “A list of…”
“Things I want to do to you, experience with you...”
My head jerks up. A rolling list of things I want him to do to me goes through my mind but surely our lists aren’t the same.
“What do you have so far?”
“You really want to know?
“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.” My heart flutters with butterflies, pesky fucking insects… “Enzo, please—”
A knock sounds at my door and Enzo must have heard it because he chuckles. “Right on time… Duty calls, Little Doc. Be nice. I’ll meet you in my dreams.”
“Wait—” the line ends, and I huff, more than a little irritated at the interruption. What does he mean ‘right on time’ and ‘be nice?’
I need to see that list.
Flinging the covers off me, I huff as I make my way to the door, wrenching it open with a touch too much attitude.
My jaw hits the floor when I’m met with Rafael’s deep brown irises.
This close, I can see they differ slightly from Enzo’s.
Rafael’s are freckled with gold. Like stars in the night sky.
His gaze meets mine after it traces up my body.
I expect a snicker of mockery, maybe even a snarl of disgust at my fuzzy socks and tattered T-shirt but instead, my muscles tremble at the simmering, bold intensity he eats me alive with.
“Dr. Sinclair. I’m in need of your services.”
I’ll serve you.
All tanned and shirtless with abs I could wash my fucking laundry on. Fuck, yes, I’ll service you. I mean, seriously, he expects me to function when his muscled, sweat covered body towers over me and he stares at me like I’m his last meal on death row?
Does he know no mercy? Couldn’t he have at least put a shirt on for fuck’s sake?
Traffics innocent children, spawn of Satan, merciless killer, took my privacy away…
Fuck. My lady boner kind of likes a couple of those things…
“Doctor?” His rough voice jolts me from my stupor as I literally wipe a line of drool from my chin.
“Shit, sorry. Yes. Services. That’s my job. Serving…” I gulp and suddenly can’t meet his all too intrusive stare. “You.” I’m beginning to think this plan of Alexey’s was more about testing my loyalty with the alluring genes of the Alessi bloodline than murdering them.
“You need to invite me in, remember? I’m a man of my word.”
Right. I step to the side, although I don’t know how—my legs feel like Jello, but I straighten my spine and find it deep…deep within me to not crawl up this man like a feral cat in heat. “Come in.” Me.
He steps through the threshold, offering me both of his hands.
I take them, inspecting the injuries. His hands dwarf mine but our palms mirror one another.
I don’t have smooth, soft skin like a woman of my age should.
Similar to Rafael’s, my joints are stiff, fingers a bit crooked from having them broken a few too many times.
My palms are equally rough, callused from handling my blades.
But running my fingers over his, I find split knuckles, blood dripping down in between the crevices of his fingers.
It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to recognize the injury and its cause.
“Do you not wrap when you box?” I ask, meeting his glare once again.
“I do not.”
I do not, I internally mock. Sighing, I pull him through my room and into the bathroom, directing him to sit on the closed toilet seat.
He waits a beat, inspecting it with a tilt of his head before deciding it meets his specifications and sits. Pulling out my first aid kit, I rifle through the contents until I’m sure everything I need is here.
As I clean his knuckles with a damp gauze, he remains stock still. Not a single flinch when I apply pressure to the small cuts. When I glance up from his injury to gauge his reaction, I find him already watching me, his lips in a tight line.
“Where are your glasses, Doctor Sinclair?”
Oopsies… “I was sleeping.”
He merely hums and I decide to stretch this lie, making it more plausible if I’m ever caught without them again. “I don’t really need them to see up close like this, they are more for distance. Sometimes I choose not to wear them. A…small prescription.”
“I see.”
Does he? Does he see my lie, that I’m a big, fat, lying imposter?
Getting a new gauze, I pat the small cuts dry. They’ve stopped bleeding for now, but I know they will as soon as he makes a fist. Applying a small amount of Vaseline on a Q-Tip, I dab each cut carefully. “Why do you prefer boxing without wraps?”
He’s quiet for a long moment, silently watching my movements. Eventually, he lets out a breath. “Flesh on flesh is how my brother and I were trained.”
“I see.”
I mimic his earlier response, letting him see the jovial intention behind the two words, dropping my resting bitch face as my lips twist in a sideways smirk.
His expression barely changes, only the taut skin surrounding his eyes loosens a fraction.
After I’ve finished applying the ointment, I lay a non-stick gauze over the four protruding knuckles and wrap it, once, then twice.
He reaches out in a flash, snatching my wrist and I gasp, not expecting the force. “Three times,” he commands and my brows dip, not understanding. “Wrap it three times around. Like this.”
He takes the stretchy wrap, undoing what I had done and re-wrapping it, this time encircling his knuckles three times around.
My jaw clenches, pressing my back teeth together. “Well, if you could have done it, why did you come and wake me?”
“Maybe I wanted to see if you were naive enough to let a devil through your door.” My spine snaps straight and my heart pounds beneath my sternum like a drum, bang, bang, bang.
Why is it doing that? Why can he elicit such a response from me? Said response may be half desire to throat-punch him for calling me naive and half desire to lick the sweat off his abs but either way it’s desire, nonetheless.
When I don’t respond, still processing his words and the reaction I want to give, he offers me the bandage and I tentatively take it.
We both remain silent as I clean his other wounds and wrap them three times.
When I’m finished, I pack up the kit and he stands.
All at once, the oxygen leaves the room as he crowds closer to me, his heat pressing into my skin like warmth from a fire.
I stare directly at his chest, and as the heat becomes too much, I lift my gaze upwards.
His head tilts forward, and I know if I tipped up on my toes, our lips would meet. “Thank you, Doctor Sinclair,” he whispers and then steps past me, his damp skin brushing my shoulder.
My knees practically give out and I steady myself against the counter, my body breaking whatever silly spell he had me under.
I force my feet forward, following him like a sick fucking dog out of the bathroom.
If I could, without reasonable suspicion, slap myself out of this fucked up little haze he’s put me in, I would.
When he reaches my door, thoughts of when Enzo burst through, caging me in on the bed, filter through my mind and I want Rafael to do the same.
I don’t question why, choosing to ignore the deranged side of my psyche.
“Should I expect Enzo to arrive with similar injuries?” I ask before he leaves.
“Enzo prefers,” Rafael eyes me from head to toe, a mischievous glint shining in the umber depths, “a more erotic form of stress relief.”
I tilt my chin, an uneasy feeling crawling up my throat at the thought of Enzo with another girl tonight. “So, I should be expecting his girl, then? What exactly should I prepare for? Bruises, cuts, burns? How rough is Enzo?”
Rafael’s holds my stare. “Enzo takes care of his own,” his eyes drop down my body, inspecting me, “and I wouldn’t be so quick to assume it would be a woman, Doctor.”
I’m taken aback for a moment. Of course, I remember seeing Enzo pictured with men and women alike and always assumed he was bisexual. I guess I assumed he was more into women than men. My mistake. But it doesn’t change the visceral unease I felt earlier…
“Right. I assumed wrong.”
Rafael reaches for the door, the muscles of his back flexing as he grabs the handle and pulls the door open. He steps over the threshold but doesn’t look back at me. “I have a feeling, Doctor Sinclair, you may have many incorrect assumptions about my brother and I.”
I bite my lower lip, resisting the urge to ask for more, or to tie him to a chair and torture the truth from his lips. Instead, I settle for a simpler request. “Call me Lucy.”
He nods. “Goodnight, Lucy.”