Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Don’t Say I Didn’t Warn You
Raf
I look down at her, taking in the petite sleeping beauty who missed all the street-front commotion, cozy and still very much passed out, except now she is lying across the entire backseat.
I could take the front seat. Leave her to sleep comfortably sprawled across the back, but she doesn’t have a belt on, I tell myself.
Then I take the argument one step further.
And if someone hits us and she’s not wearing a seatbelt, she could get injured.
Objection, shouts the louder voice. Overruled, echoes the same tiny voice from before.
Muffled thanks to the way it’s buried so far under the repressed parts of me, the same ones that nudged dormant desires to life since the appearance of this certain someone.
Facts I’m not fully ready to acknowledge, but that have me sliding into the back seat, slowly and softly lifting Chiara upright, strapping her in then sitting close enough to let her use my chest as her pillow.
My blood boils again at the thought of that douchebag friend of Luca’s she was flirting with all night.
How he could just leave her passed out in a toilet stall while he sucked face with another woman.
For all the ways she’s gotten under my skin to date, Chiara deserves more fucking respect than that, and when I see that shithead of a guy at one of Luca’s get togethers, I think my fist might tell him as much. Again.
My phone vibrates with a text notification. Plucking it out of my pocket, I see it’s Mr. F1 fancy pants himself.
Best Little Bro Ever:
Hey, is Chi alright? Hudson just told me what happened.
It seems you have shit taste in women and friends.
Best Little Bro Ever:
WTF, bro. No need to go for jugular. He said that you haven’t got the full story and wouldn’t give him a chance to explain. Given this text, I suspect he’s right.
I saw enough. Hudson is a fucking dickhead. No explanation needed. Story over. The end.
Best Little Bro Ever:
Well he’s a good guy. He’s always had my back. Not sure I can say the same for you seeing as you’re turning into Dad without even realizing it. Good luck with that.
Best Little Bro Ever:
Arabella is home if you need to drop Chi off.
She’s staying with me.
Best Little Bro Ever:
Poor her.
*middle finger emoji*
“I am not fucking turning into Dad,” I mutter to myself as tuck my phone away and settle into the seat, feeling anything but settled as my driver carefully meanders towards my home through the misty night.
Chiara has draped herself across me, the feel of her heavy on my chest, causing it to swell.
It’s a sensation I haven’t felt—or allowed myself to feel—in two years.
Even with Juliette, it was transactional, no aftercare.
No lying wrapped around each other. No urge like the one I’m fighting now to reach out and stroke the silky strands of her hair, to let them slip through my fingers, maybe even wrap them around my fist and tug. Fuck.
The sound of her murmuring incoherent things interrupts my deviant thoughts. I hear my name and “so hot,” then “so grumpy.”
I chuckle softly. This woman is a hazard to herself, and yet when I look down into her face, I see the anguish that paints her pretty, young features, the unfiltered pain she tries so hard to cover with sunshine and rainbows, big smiles and witty snark.
I remember the text from Avery and pull my phone out of my pocket, going into the encrypted app Marco insists we use—I feel like I need a fucking degree to do so, but I listen to him and use it nonetheless.
Avery:
For you. Part relevant. Part revelation.
With one eye still on the Chiara, I open the attachment and quickly scan the transcript. Fuck! It’s what I wanted but also far more than I needed or desired to know.
Anger rumbles through me again at the information I have in my hands, and I give into the urge to gently brush the hair away from her pouty lips.
As I study her face, her button nose, and rosy cheeks, long lashes and full lips still stained red, I whisper back the question she posed to me.
“No, Little Devil, the question is, who hurt you?”
Worse than that, why is your own family enabling it? I wish I could forget what I saw in that transcript, chalk it up to it’s none of my fucking business. Except that would make me a monster, and as much as I’ve acted the part tonight in many ways, I’m not cold-hearted.
As if she can hear my thoughts, she burrows in closer, anchoring herself to me.
I wonder briefly if she’s more lucid than her closed eyes let on.
But as her hand comes to rest on my chest over my thundering heart, I decide I’d rather play the part of the fool for just a moment instead of calling her out on it and shatter the illusion.
She adds pressure to the spot like she’s seeking warmth in my comfort and subconsciously trying to comfort me at the same time.
I look down at it, like it might sear a mark on my skin the longer it remains there.
She lightly brushes her fingers up and down my chest, and it creates yet another fissure in my carefully erected wall.
I know in this moment that I am fucked. Royally fucked.
There’s only one way to put a stop to her uncle’s plans, but no matter what, I can’t be the one to do it. To save her. It can’t be me.
Famous last words.