Chapter 29
Reckoning
THE MAESTRO | Past
The meeting with Judas leaves a foul taste in my mouth.
It shakes me more than I care to admit. Vane is still out there, hiding like the rat he is because I didn’t put a bullet between his eyes when I had the chance.
It is a rare miscalculation on my part. But Adrian Davenport?
The boy is practically begging for death, running his mouth, playing a game he doesn’t have the stomach for.
He will be handled soon. I’ll make sure of it.
But right now, the violence of the city feels worlds away from the isolated fortress on the cliffside. My fortress.
When the car finally pulls up the winding driveway, the house looms out of the grey fog.
Winter is coming.
I step into the foyer, shedding my damp overcoat and handing it to Elena, who appears in the doorway.
“Where is she?”
Elena gives a small, respectful dip of her head, her eyes harboring that perpetual look of pity she reserves for my wife. “In your study, sir. She has been there for a few hours.”
My brows furrow. My study? She usually avoids my spaces as if they were plagued.
I dismiss Elena with a nod and walk down the hallway to my study. I push the door open, expecting to find her sifting through my things, or perhaps just staring blankly out the window at the crashing waves.
Instead, the room is quiet save for the rhythmic patter of rain against the glass.
She is asleep on the couch.
A heavy hardcover book lies open on her chest, rising and falling with her shallow, even breaths. I stop in my tracks.
The silk strap of her sleeping gown has ridden down her shoulder, exposing the pale, smooth line of her collarbone and the soft curve where her neck meets her shoulder.
I gulp as a heavy heat coils tight in my gut.
I want to tear that silk away. I want to claim the skin beneath it until she forgets whatever is in her head.
I walk toward her slowly, keeping my steps silent so I don’t wake her.
I kneel beside the couch. Up close, she looks so young, so painfully delicate. I reach out, my fingers trembling before brushing the back of my hand against her cool cheek. She doesn’t stir when my thumb moves lower, tracing the parted line of her full lips.
The urge to crush my mouth against hers is agonizing.
Instead, I press my thumb firmly against her lips, then withdraw it, kissing the pad of my own thumb where her warmth still lingers.
I’ve been patient; I’ve given her time to cope. I know she needs time.
I provide everything. Jewels, clothes, a separate room upon her request, an empty dining table where I do nothing but watch her. I even allow her traitor of a Mother to live under my roof just to keep her sane. I will do anything for her. Anything to keep her here.
It’s exhausting. Having her, but not truly having her.
It is a special kind of fucking torture, standing in the palace I built for her while she drifts through the halls like a ghost, treating me like the monster who locked her away.
I am the monster who locked her away, but I’d burn the rest of the world to ashes if it meant she looked at me with an ounce of the warmth she gives her memories.
Fuck, she is beautiful. So fragile it makes my chest ache, yet she holds a power over me that sickens and captivates me.
I look at her lips, still wet where my thumb pressed into them, and my jaw tautens until it clicks.
Every single drop of blood in her veins, every ragged breath she takes in her sleep, it all belongs to me.
I bought her with violence, I paid for her in blood, and I’ll be damned if I let her slip away into the dark.
I trace the line of her jaw with the back of my hand, not quite touching her, terrified that the sheer brutality of my hunger will shatter her.
Wake up. Wake up and look at me. Hate me, fight me, scream at me… just don’t look past me anymore.
My gaze drops back down to the slipped strap of her gown, the pale curve of her breast teasing my sanity.
It takes every ounce of my fading restraint not to sink my teeth into that soft skin, to leave marks that would remind her exactly who commands her body now.
I want to ruin her for anyone else. I want to strip away every lingering thought of her past until I am the only thing she breathes, the only thing she fears, the only thing she craves.
She thinks her Mother is her protection; she has no fucking clue that I am barely holding back the tide.
I am a patient man when it comes to business, but watching my wife starve herself of affection in my own house is driving me unhinged.
I don’t care how long it takes. I don’t care if I have to break every boundary she set up.
I will make her love me. Even if it kills us both.
A slight movement from her stills me. Her eyes flutter open.
Startled by my presence, she jolts upward. The movement drags the loose gown lower, the fabric dipping dangerously low, nearly exposing her nipples.
“Hi, Dolcezza…” I whisper, giving her a slight smile I know she used to love.
Her eyes widen and before she can push me away, I lean over her, pinning her gently against the couch. I bury my face into the crook of her neck, my lips finding the warm skin of her pulse point. I kiss her there, inhaling the scent of her that I have starved myself of for weeks.
“What… what are you doing?” she gasps, her hands coming up to press against my chest, though her voice lacks any real strength.
I pull back just enough to look down at her, holding her panicked gaze. A slow, dangerous smile touches my lips.
“Kissing my wife,” I murmur, my voice husky.
She blinks, trying to clear the haze of sleep from her brain, her chest heaving against mine. “You… you shouldn’t be here. Don’t you have someone else for this?”
I pause, my brows knitting together in genuine confusion. “Someone else?”
“Out there,” she says, her voice bitter as she looks away from my gaze. “A mistress. Or several. Isn’t that why you’re never home?”
I let out a low chuckle. My thumb catches her chin and forces her face back toward me.
“Who the hell told you that?”
“Mama told me,” she whispers, her defensive wall slipping for a fraction of a second. “She said men who are powerful always have mistresses kept outside. That it’s just what your kind does.”
My grip on her chin softens, though I don’t look away.
“Your Mother,” I say softly, my lips brushing against hers as I speak, “knows absolutely nothing about me. I don’t want anyone else. I only want you. And if I’m not home, it’s because I am ensuring no one ever takes you away from me.”
Her breath hitches, her small hands still flattened against my chest, over the erratic, violent thud of my heart.
She looks at me, searching my eyes for the lie.
She wants to find it. She wants me to be the heartless bastard her Mother warned her about because it’s easier to hate a cliché than it is to navigate the terrifying reality of whatever this is between us.
“You’re lying,” she whispers, her voice trembling, though she doesn’t pull away from my touch. “You just say what you need to say to keep me compliant. To make me forget what you took.”
It angers me, but fuck, it breaks me too.
“I don’t lie to you, Dolcezza,” I murmur, my voice dropping an octave, thicker now with an emotion I hate acknowledging.
I lean down, pressing my forehead against hers, forcing her to share my air.
“Never to you. If you want me here, I am here. If you want me to stay, the world outside can burn to the fucking ground while I sit at your feet.”
I slide my hand from her chin, my fingers tangling into the silk of her hair, tilting her head back just enough to expose the delicate line of her throat again.
My gaze darkens as I look down at her gown, still dipped dangerously low.
The need to consume her roars in me, but the sight of the unshed tears in her eyes makes me hold back.
I don’t want to just take her body. I want to heal the fractures, even if I’m the one who caused them.
“Let me make it better,” I whisper against her lips, the command softening into a desperate plea. “Tell me how to fix it. Tell me what you need, and I will tear it out of the earth for you.”
“You can’t bring him back,” she chokes out, a single tear spilling over her lashes, tracking down her cheek. “You can’t change what happened.”
I swallow the venom down. I brush the tear away with the pad of my thumb.
“No,” I concede. “I can’t. But I can give you a future. I can give you this.”
I close the final fraction of an inch between us, pressing my lips to hers. It isn’t the brutal, possessive clash I’ve been fantasizing about all this week. It is slow and deep, and intimate, like a devotional promise sealed with sin.
I drink in her soft gasp, my tongue sliding past her parted lips to taste the sweetness of her, teaching her body exactly how it feels to be thoroughly worshiped.
She whimpers as her fingers tighten, clutching at the fabric of my shirt instead of pushing me away. The subtle surrender nearly snaps the last vestige of my restraint. I shift my weight, pressing her deeper into the cushions of the couch, letting her feel the heavy reality of my body over hers.
When I finally pull back, just an inch, our breaths mingle in the dark. Her lips are flushed, swollen from my touch, and her eyes are beautifully dazed.
“I will be home every single night if that’s what it takes to make you believe me,” I swear against her skin, my lips trailing down to her jawline, leaving a chain of burning kisses. “Just give me a chance to make you forget the pain. Let me be the only thing you feel.”