Chapter 7
CHANTEL
“Jesus.”
The sound of Cristian muttering his frustration and the jingling of keys stirs me awake. When I open my eyes, I realize we’re at my front door. He’s struggling to figure out the keys to my six deadbolts while simultaneously holding me up.
“I can do it,” I mumble, though I have serious doubts about the factuality of that statement.
“I’ve got it.” He disengages the last lock and opens the door with a sigh. “I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what that’s about.”
“You could’ve just put me in an Uber and sent me home,” I deflect.
He gives me a look like I’m insane for even suggesting it. Though I’m certain after tonight, he probably thinks I am.
Insecurity weighs heavily on me as he carries me inside my shabby little house and glances around. It’s old with a lot of things in need of repair or updating, but the rent is cheap. I’ve done the best I could, making it my own with a moody Victorian aesthetic.
It’s an intimate space filled with tufted velvet seating, heavy drapery, and Parisian-style rugs.
When I moved in, I painted the walls a deep charcoal color and accented everything else in varying shades of plum, wine, and mauve.
I thrifted most of the art deco style décor, including the gold candle sconces, antique jewelry boxes, and trinket dishes.
I’m actually quite proud of what I’ve done with it, considering how it looked when I first arrived. But it’s no comparison to the Vitale family mansion or the luxury Cristian is accustomed to. It’s the same reason I never invited Marco over, or any of my friends.
We live completely different lives.
“You can set me down now,” I tell Cristian. “I’ll be fine, and I’m sure you have much more interesting things to do with your time.”
He ignores me and carries me down the hall, peering inside the guest bathroom before we reach my bedroom. There’s only one, so it isn’t hard to find.
Cristian pulls back my covers and settles me onto the bed, removing my sandals before his eyes drift over my gold dress. He’s so hard to read, I can’t tell if he’s debating whether to help me into some pajamas, or if this tension between us isn’t just my imagination.
I swallow as some unreasonable part of my brain tries to convince me I could have him strip me naked. Then I remember who he is, and how none of this makes sense.
Over the span of two days, our dynamic has completely shifted somehow. He’s gone from my friend’s older brother and boyfriend’s best friend to…my protector?
To say I’m confused is an understatement.
For one, I’m not used to men taking care of me.
The fact that it’s Cristian is even more perplexing.
This is the same man who has only ever looked at me as if I possess the unique ability to disappoint him more than the general human population.
But witnessing this side of him makes me want to surrender… at least a little bit.
I could see how addictive it might be, and it would be easy to get caught up in the fantasy. But if tonight has proven anything, it’s that there is no such thing as safety. People will always disappoint you in the end.
“Why are you being nice to me?” I ask.
“Not everyone has an ulterior motive,” he murmurs. “Sometimes, people just do the right thing.”
“Not in my experience.”
I regret the words the moment they leave my mouth because Cristian already sees too much. He doesn’t need to know how I feel too.
“Then maybe you should surround yourself with better people,” he says.
“I don’t get you.” I peer up at him. “I thought you hated me.”
“I don’t hate you,” he answers gruffly. “I avoided you. There’s a difference.”
“Why?”
His gaze lingers on mine, the darkness in his eyes melting into something warmer.
It stirs a shiver of awareness in me when I realize that, somehow, our faces are only inches apart.
I don’t know how we got here, and I can’t stop myself from drinking in the details of his handsome features.
He’s everything a man should be, and it seems unfair that there’s only one of him, particularly when this model can’t decide whether he likes or hates me.
Right now, I want him to like me. So much so that it steals my breath, reminding me of the nervous little flutter I had the first time he spoke to me. But that’s something I’ll take to my grave. He has enough women vying for his attention as it is.
“I bet you have a trail of broken hearts behind you.” I sigh.
He shakes his head like it’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard.
“What? I’ve seen the way women throw themselves at you. It probably only takes one night for you to ruin them.”
“You’d be surprised,” he answers dryly.
I don’t know what he means by that, but it doesn’t matter. I’m pretty sure my mouth has disconnected from my brain because words are just spilling out now.
“I bet you’d make beautiful babies.” I reach up to touch him, letting my fingers roam over his face.
He releases a rough breath, and that smolder in his eyes turns into a blazing inferno. “There’s one way to find out.”
I can’t tell if he’s joking, but now all I can think about is what it would feel like to be wrecked by Cristian Vitale. Physically, not emotionally, because I suspect the latter is something a woman doesn’t recover from.
Against my better judgment, my eyes drift to his lips, and for one fleeting second, I wonder what it would be like to break my rules—just once.
Kissing is supposed to be a nonnegotiable.
But right now, the irrational side of me isn’t thinking about messy complications.
That part of me makes me do stupid things, like sit up and crawl onto his lap.
A low rumble vibrates through his chest as I shift closer, settling over the unmistakable heat in his trousers. Apparently that part of him likes me just fine.
His gaze slides over the exposed part of my thighs and all the way up my dress, pausing on the soft swell of my breasts.
I know I’m not imagining the hunger in his eyes or the pronounced hardness straining against his zipper.
When I roll my hips against him, he bites back a groan, and that sound unravels my last thread of restraint.
But when I reach for his tie and start to loosen it, he closes his eyes briefly, then stills my hands with his.
“Not like this, gattina.”
His rejection is subdued, but it doesn’t matter. It stings like hell in my fragile state.
“I’m sorry.” I scramble off him and slide across the bed, putting as much distance between us as I can. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“Chantel—”
“Can you please just go?” I turn away and pull the covers over myself. “I want to be alone.”
There’s a long stretch of silence before he finally stands and leaves the room.
Once he’s gone, I curl into myself and try to hold it together, but I can’t. My emotions are all over the place, and I can’t even blame it on one particular thing. It’s just this constant feeling of never being enough.
The worst part is that no matter how much I’ve tried to kill it, there’s still something inside me that wants to be chosen, loved, and protected. I hate it, and the irony is that it doesn’t even matter. I’ll never feel safe enough to trust anyone again.
I let myself wallow for a few minutes before I dry my tears and stuff down my emotions, locking them away. Tomorrow’s a new day, and things will be better. At least that’s what I always tell myself.
I slip out of bed and change into a tank top and shorts, then go about my nightly routine.
Opening my drawer, I retrieve my stiletto knife and tuck it beneath my pillow.
Then I place the flashlight and a canister of pepper spray in their respective places on the nightstand.
Lastly, I remove my gun from the biometric safe and begin my ritual.
Clearing the bathroom first, I prop my baseball bat beside the door and plug in my burner phone, just in case. I like to have a weapon in each room, and I can’t sleep until I’ve checked everything.
Usually, I’d scroll through the notifications from my doorbell camera on the way home, but tonight I wasn’t able to do that. There’s an order to my chaos, and if I stray outside of it, the possibilities of what could go wrong overwhelm me.
Once my room and bathroom are secured and I’ve checked each of the windows six times, I quietly make my way down the hall in the darkness.
I move around the perimeter, methodically inspecting every other window before I reach the front door. When I find only one of the deadbolts locked, a flood of intrusive thoughts crashes through my mind.
What if someone already got in?
What if they’ve been here the whole time?
They could be in the attic.
Were they waiting for me to come home?
What if they come for me and I freeze?
I breathe my way through the mini panic attack as I lock each deadbolt and check them all six times. But tonight, that isn’t enough. So I stand there for a while longer, repeating the ritual until I manage to convince myself I really locked them and I’m not imagining it.
Once I accept that, it calms me a little, at least until I turn around.
When my eyes register the silhouette of a dark figure standing a few feet away, fear claws its way up my throat.
A hollow sound echoes inside my chest as I raise the gun in my hand, shaking so violently I can hardly hold it steady. I can’t get any words out, and before I can even think about squeezing the trigger, he lunges forward and disarms me.
“Jesus Christ.”
The words are a sharp exhalation from a familiar voice, but my body can’t seem to accept the threat is over. I’m still trembling as I try to drag in a breath, and I stumble back, seeking some kind of stability to latch onto.
“Hey.” Cristian reaches out and pulls me close, cradling my head against his chest. “It’s okay. It’s just me.”
An involuntary sob spills free as he offers me refuge in his arms.
“Fuck, Chantel. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Tears streak down my face, humiliating me even more than I already was. Usually, I’d run as fast and far as I could in a situation like this, but I’m so physically drained from the events of today that I can’t seem to move at all.
“You’re safe now,” Cristian assures me, his voice roughening at the edges.
Those words settle deep inside me, and I don’t know why, but I believe him. Because at least for this moment, as long as he’s here, nobody else can hurt me.
As I process that, my breathing gradually slows and my tears dry up. Neither of us moves, even when his comfort is long past the point of necessity.
It doesn’t make sense because I don’t let people hold me like this. But nothing about it feels forced. What scares me more is the realization that I don’t want to let go, and that’s what makes me pull away. Then for the second time tonight, he carries me to bed.
When he tucks me in, his gaze lingers on my swollen eyes, and he wipes away the last of my tears with a gentleness that makes my chest ache.
“I’m not going anywhere tonight,” he promises. “I’ll be just down the hall, and I won’t let anything happen to you.”
I want to ask him why he’s even still here, or more importantly, tell him to stop being nice to me. I don’t want this false sense of security. But ultimately, my exhaustion wins.
Before I can say anything at all, my eyes drift shut, and everything goes dark.