Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
There’s A Fine Line Between Love And Hate
Raf
I hear the soft murmurs of goodbyes, and Sophia appears at the door.
“Be gentle with her,” she warns.
I understand why, and even if I was arguing similar points with myself just now, it still stings to know that even my own sister thinks I’ve become so hardened by life over the last few years that she needs to remind me to be empathetic.
I walk into Chiara’s room and stand at the side of the bed closest to the door. Her head is turned to the opposite wall. She knows I’m there but refuses to look at me. She’s in a hospital gown that swallows her, making her look even more fragile than I know she already is.
She might wear her independence and sass like a badge of honor, but under all that pretense is a woman starved for affection, care, and love.
Convinced she is unworthy and unlovable.
Yet her biggest failing is a misplaced belief that I might be the one worthy or capable of giving her any of those things.
“Are you ready to go? Evie brought you some of her clothes to change into.”
“Can I have my phone so I can ask Avery to take me home.”
I like Avery. I have the utmost trust and respect in him, but like that night she was dancing with Hudson, hearing Chiara ask for him causes heat to blaze through the pit of my stomach and spread across my chest.
“No. Last time I checked, you were my date, not Avery’s,” I say. “Besides, I told Arabella I would get you home, and above all else, I’m a man of my word.”
She turns her head slowly, and I partly regret what I’ve just said, but I’m mostly thrilled that, just like Sophia predicted, I found a way to persuade her to listen to me. We’re both fully aware of some of the heated threats I’ve made with this mouth.
“Is that so? Hmmm, good to know,” she guffaws weakly.
“Besides, Avery is stationed here with one other man to ensure Marco’s safety, and there will be two others watching my house.”
“Why?” she says sharply.
I consider lying to her, to spare her from more guilt over what’s happened tonight, but I also think keeping her out of harm’s way means being truthful.
“AJ is the one who warned Marco there was a gunman in there tonight, one of Rizzo’s men that had gone rogue and is now acting alone as a mercenary. Your cousin seems to think this guy reached out to Arty to offer his services.”
I don’t miss the way her face pales. I want to ask her what’s wrong, or if she thinks this guy is connected to the one in L.A.
, but we haven’t had a proper discussion about what I know of him.
Or the way I had Avery run that picture through facial recognition.
It sounds slightly obsessive even to my own ears.
“Did anyone get a good look at him?” she asks. “Did you?”
I didn’t because my attention was solely focused on trying to find you as panic ensued around us, is what I want to say. Instead, I shake my head.
“Not sure. We’ll know more when Marco wakes up and the police can interview him. C’mon, it’s been a long night,” I say as I pick up the clothes on the table and drop them on the bed. “Put these on so I can get you home to rest.”
Our eyes lock.
It’s easier for me to resist her, resist my baser needs to possess and praise her when she’s being bratty and insolent.
But when she looks at me with her emerald eyes that have witnessed too much death and destruction—yet should still be full of hope—I realize I might be the one who can put the twinkle back in the darkest parts of her, and I’m certain there will be nothing I can do to stop myself from crossing lines we won’t be able to come back from.
The hitch? Like all the other men who have betrayed her before, I would be doing so fully aware I’m too bruised by my own mistrust of love to give her the devotion she deserves, and I’m too hardened by betrayal to be the man worthy of the all-consuming love she has to give.
But if I’m honest, the thing that scares me most is letting myself love someone so completely that her pain becomes mine.
Even if hers already feels like it is. Fuck.
I’m so in my head. It’s starting to pound in time to the thumping of my heart.
I clear my throat to bring us back to reality and dump cold water on these outlandish feelings starting to swirl more strongly every time I find myself in a quiet moment of contemplation.
It’s just tonight’s shocking events, I reassure myself, knowing full well this argument will only hold if Chiara doesn’t find a way to tug at the last thread holding my willpower together.
The drive home is quiet. Chiara tries to fight sleep, but by the time we arrive home, she’s completely out.
Like the last time, I scoop her up and carry her inside, except in spite of my better judgment, I walk straight past the guest room and down to my own.
The nurses recommended someone stay close by in case she becomes lightheaded.
My home is heated and she feels a bit clammy in the clothes Evie gave her, so I set her on my bed and softly wake her.
“Chiara, can I put one of my T-shirts on you? You’re feeling a bit warm.”
“Hmmm,” she murmurs, and I quickly and gently whip off her jumper, replacing it with my T-shirt which falls pretty much to her knees, meaning I can get her bottoms off without laying eyes on the part of her I felt burn for me in the office that day.
Not the time, Raf.
I lay her down gently, and she settles into the pillow.
I move her hair from her face and smooth my thumb over her cheekbone and down her jaw—to wipe away a black smudge left in the wake of her tears, I rationalize.
I head to the bathroom to shower quickly, throwing on a pair of sweats even if I, too, am feeling warm.
I was sure to be quiet as a mouse, except when I return, I find my sleeping beauty not so asleep.
Instead, she’s sitting on the edge of the bed, looking like she’s in the throes of indecision about whether she’s going to stay put or run.
I don’t give her the chance to do the latter, because I round the bed and step between her legs.
She peers up at me, her face tear-soaked, the picture of resignation and exhaustion.
“Hey, it’s all going to be okay,” I murmur, gently wiping away her tears with my thumb.
“None of this is your fault. Marco is going to recover—you saved his life.” My words are like kindling to the embers.
A flick switches, and her expression morphs into one that’s dark and enraged, like I’ve offended her.
She uses all her force to push me back, jumping to her feet, but wobbles. I reach for her.
“Don’t you dare,” she seethes, shoving me in the chest again. “Don’t give me your fucking sympathy.” Shove. “Don’t treat me like I’m some fucking fragile doll.” Shove.
“Don’t for one second look at me like you c—”
I grab her wrist as she goes to shove me again, and she thrashes against me. She’s yelling now. “You hate me, remember, Raf. I’m too annoying. Too loud. Too young. Too messy.”
“I don’t hate you. In fact, you’ve made it fucking impossible to.”
“I don’t need your pity. I need you to fuck me like you hate me. I need to feel, because it’s better than being dead inside.”
My breathing has intensified. It feels wrong to feel turned on.
For my cock to be so hard it’s throbbing, but there’s no denying we are two sides of the same coin.
Being around her has pushed me to my limits.
And now she’s begging me to fuck her senseless.
I don’t think I can say no. I don’t want to say no.
I don’t hesitate. I grab a fistful of her hair and tug, lifting her head up and her face towards me.
She stares at me intently, her eyes glassy and faceted like they’re made up of a million shattered pieces. Memories. Bloodshed. Hope. Trauma. Lust. Pure need. For me? For this? For someone’s love. My love?
“You want me to hate-fuck you, Little Devil? Is that what you want? Do you want me to fuck you so hard you don’t know where pleasure and pain start and end?”
“Please help me forget. Please be what I need tonight. Please fuck me like you hate me, because that’s what I fucking deserve. Even if it’s just for tonight, I’ll take it.”
“Just for tonight. This can only happen once. Tell me you understand.” I need to know she understands this doesn’t make me her gold standard.
It makes me a fucking asshole, because I know I can’t offer her what she needs.
If history is anything to go by, I’m not good at relationships.
I’m not worth sticking around for. But, maybe if I use the broken pieces of me to patch the broken pieces of her, she might start to feel whole again.
“Yes, I understand. Just once,” she rasps. “Punish me. Do your worst to me. Give me fucking hell.”
I bend to kiss her jaw, and she tugs at my hair, bringing us nose to nose.
“Raf, I can’t fucking take it anymore,” she whispers roughly through gritted teeth. “Don’t treat me like I’m glass. I don’t deserve your pity, and I’d rather fucking walk right back out that door than to have your cock inside me just for some pity fuck.”
It’s a plea and a prayer for penance all wrapped up in a promise of something that I know will break me, but maybe, just maybe, put her back together.
Her breathing is labored, almost like another panic attack is coming, but she pushes on.
“I want you to fucking devastate me, Raf. Show me how angry you are that your best friend is lying in that hospital bed because of me. Unleash your worst. Mark me so I’ll never forget the night I brought death to the door and nearly ruined an entire family.
But mostly, make me forget how much I fucking hate myself. ”
Her choked-back sob undoes me. I encircle her wrist and tug on it so she’ll release her grasp on my hair.
“You have no idea what you’re asking for, angel. You’ve driven me to hell and back so many times since you arrived that even Lucifer himself can’t stand the sight of me.”