Chapter Twelve
Raya
A FEATHER-LIGHT TOUCH skims along my foot, rousing me from sleep.
Against my will, my eyes flutter open, and…I hold my breath.
Shit. I must have dozed off after dinner, meaning to rest for just a moment. How long have I been out for?
That’s not why I’m holding my breath, though.
Not only is Stefano Castello sitting on the same couch I’m curled up on, but my feet are on his lap.
How…when…why?
He’s reading, fully absorbed in a small leather-bound book, his free hand resting on my feet. His thumb sweeping slow, absent strokes, back and forth, along the arch of my foot. Sending a quiet thrill through me.
What’s happening right now?
Outside the windows, the deep blue sky is fading toward dawn. Damn, I’ve been asleep here all night? Why didn’t anyone wake me?
While Stefano is lost in his book, oblivious to my wakefulness, I take the chance to surreptitiously admire him. In all his brutal perfection.
His suit jacket’s gone, but he’s otherwise fully dressed, the sleeves of his crisp white shirt rolled to his elbows. Given the hour, he likely just got in from his nightly lording at Black Gold.
He’s infuriatingly divine.
Handsome to a fault.
My heart is so unreasonable when it comes to him. So reckless. Its obsession with him is senseless and confounding. No rhythm, rhyme, or reason.
I’ve been with men more beautiful. I’ve bossed men more powerful. Stefano Castello is no more ruthless, formidable, magnificent, or impressive than the legions of avaricious demons I’ve encountered in my short life.
So, why him?
What makes my heart latch on to him?
I loathe it. Resent it. Resent him.
Once I’ve had my fill of him, I close my eyes and emit a soft moan, shifting as if I’m just waking. His thumb stills against my skin, then disappears entirely.
Feigning a sleepy yawn, I flutter my eyes open and begin to stretch, then pause, blinking at him in mock surprise.
“Am I dreaming?” I croak. “Or am I dead?”
His unreadable gaze meets mine, belying nothing.
“This is my favorite reading spot. Everyone in this house knows that. But you wouldn’t.
Because you don’t live here, do you?” He flicks his attention back to the pages of his book.
“And I won’t forgo my morning reading just because you’ve decided to take up space here like the annoying pest that you are. ”
Dramatic as always. All he’s missing is a billowing black cape.
“You could have just woken me up,” I say.
“Oh, but you snore so beautifully.”
What a lying liar! “I do not.”
“Such mellifluous white noise.” He taps my foot. “Go back to sleep. It was helping me focus.”
“No, I’ll just head back to the house. I’ve outstayed my welcome,” I say. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep in your space. I was just tired and needed a moment...”
A full minute passes, but I still don’t move, and he doesn’t shove me off the couch. His hand settles on my feet again. Stays there. His focus never leaving the pages of his book.
After another long minute of silence, I ask, “What are you reading?”
Several beats pass before he replies, “‘To every man upon this earth, death cometh soon or late. And how can man die better than facing fearful odds. For the ashes of his fathers, and the temples of his gods.’”
“Horatius,” I say.
His gaze shifts from the pages to me, one brow arching slightly.
“I know a lot of random shit,” I explain with a failed shrug.
His attention returns to his book. “Don’t blaspheme the classics.”
“My apologies.” I wiggle my toes in his lap. “Did you hold up your end of the bargain?”
A low, disgruntled noise rumbles from his throat. “Yes. Your bartender will be on the first flight out to Santo Domingo, with her soul still intact.”
“Good. Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Castello.”
There’s the slightest, almost imperceptible curve of his lips. “Cute that you think that was business.”
“I take pleasure in being delusional sometimes. Leave me be.”
He drums his fingers against my toes. “Go back to sleep, little liar.”
“Only if you tell me a bedtime story.” I’m deliberately testing his patience now. “Or sing me a lullaby.”
His snort is light, that ghost of a smile still lingering.
He tilts his head back, eyes drifting to the ceiling for a moment, before shifting back to me.
Fire and mischief flickering in their depths.
“A little lost lamb wandered into the land of lions. Its eyes green with guile, its lips red with lies. Mask firmly fixed, the entire kingdom it tricked. Before the lions knew, the cunning lamb grew, and its true nature slipped through. But one lion waited, in darkness and bright, for when faux wool falls, and morning bows to night. Strike as it might, only one will win the fight. And the wily wolf will return, into the earth as a worm.”
No chance he just made that up. Does he have a hate book where he scribbles venomous little poems about me?
I yawn. “Don’t quit your day job as a criminal. You’re a terrible poet.”
“That was your lullaby.” He pinches my calf like I’m a misbehaving child. “Now close your eyes and go back to sleep, or get up and get the hell out.”
Miserable prick.
Flipping over toward the back of the couch, I close my eyes. But sleep is impossible. I’m too wired with the restless weight of feelings I can’t even name. Too aware of his presence, his warmth, his hand still resting on my feet like he’s forgotten it’s there.
Quiet settles around us, thick and safe. I sink into it—the nearness, the tangible reality of this moment, the comfort.
I don’t want the sun to rise. Don’t want to move.
I just want to stay here, in the false safety of this stolen moment, with my rightfully paranoid king.
~
WHEN I OPEN my eyes again, I’m alone. Sunlight floods the room, chasing away the quiet cocoon of the night.
Looks like I did fall back asleep after all.
From the kitchen, the sounds of clinking dishes and the sweet aroma of frying bacon tells me Cora is already up and about.
Feeling well-rested and refreshed, I peel up from the couch, stretch my arms above my head, and shuffle toward the kitchen.
“Good morning, dear,” Cora greets, all bright and chipper. “Slept well?”
“Really well,” I admit. “That is one comfortable couch.”
She hums in agreement. “Stefano had it custom-made. It’s where he falls asleep most mornings.”
It is? Damn. So not only did I hog his favorite reading spot, I also took over his bed. I’m shocked he didn’t throw me out.
“Thanks for inviting me to dinner last night. It was lovely,” I tell her. “I don’t want to wear out my welcome, so I’m gonna head back and freshen up.”
“Nonsense.” She waves me off. “Stay for breakfast. You can freshen up in one of the guestrooms’ ensuites. The cabinets are stocked with everything you need.”
When she sees my hesitance, she quickly adds, “If you’re worried about Stefano, he’s out cold upstairs and won’t be up for hours. He’s not a breakfast person anyway.”
I’m still unconvinced, shaking my head. But before I can refuse, she sweetens the pot. “There’s banana bread…”
My eyes narrow. “Ooh, you play dirty, Cora.”
Laughing, she shoos me away. “Go, go. Freshen up.”
I head down the second hall to the guestrooms, stepping into the closest one. Just as she said, the bathroom cabinet is stocked with new toothbrushes and toiletries.
After washing up, I make my way back to the kitchen and find the breakfast bar laden with a delectable spread fit for royalty.
“Come, come. Sit, eat.”
My greedy stomach grumbles as I take a seat. “You spoil me, Cora.”
“Because you love my food.” She waves a hand around.
“These boys, so much goes to waste with them. Their appetites are fickle. Hungry one minute, uninterested the next. They start eating, get distracted, and vanish after a few bites.” She gestures vaguely above, exasperated.
“They say, ‘Cook something nice for dinner, Aunt Cora.’ And then they don’t show up. ”
I pop a slice of strawberry into my mouth. “My dad’s the same. That’s just how it is with men who are always juggling a lot of things at once.”
The front door chime echoes through the house. Seconds later, a sweaty Gio strides into the kitchen, fresh from a run. Shirtless, glistening, abs and ink on display.
His grin is easy when his eyes land on me. He comes up and plants a salty kiss on my cheek. “Hey, pretty eyes.”
“Manners!” Cora scolds, swatting him with a dishrag. “Go clean up all that sweat.”
I’m less concerned about the sweat and more about how hot he feels. Setting my fork down, I press the back of my hand to his neck.
“Gio, it’s either scorching outside, or you’re coming down with something,” I say. “You’re burning up.”
“I’m fine.” He laughs it off. “Yeah, I woke up feeling a little off, but I went for a long run to sweat it out. I’ll be right as rain after a cold shower and a shot of whiskey.”
“Uh, I don’t think that’s how it works…” I frown at him. “Have you ever been sick before?”
He pinches my cheek. “I’m good, pretty eyes. Promise.” Then he steals a strip of bacon from my plate and pops it into his mouth. “Fix me a plate, Aunt Cora?”
Watching him jog off upstairs, I shake my head. Typical stubborn men. With a fever that high, he’ll be bedridden by sundown.
“Don’t worry,” Cora tells me. “I’ll make him some honey garlic tea and a strong dose of combative herb bitters.”
I nod. “But if he gets stubborn about it and you need help, just call me. I’ll hold him down while you shove it down his throat.”
Cora shakes her head with a knowing smile. “And yet you wonder why you were at the dinner table last night.”
I squint at her. “What?”
“Oh, nothing, nothing.” She waves a hand, motioning to my plate. “Eat up.”