Chapter Twenty-Two #2
Staring up at him, I rasp out, “There’s a difference between thinking you should do something and actually doing it. You think you should kill me, because you don’t trust me...but you don’t want to.”
His answering scoff is loaded with derision.
“Hm. You just know everything, don’t you?
” His grip tightens, strangling me for real now.
To kill. “All that knowledge, all those instincts, and you still can’t tell I’m here, right now, to kill you?
To watch the life drain out of your pretty little eyes when you finally realize the game’s over, and you lost.”
Reflexively, my hands shot up to his wrist—to grab, twist, break—but I stop myself. Force the instinct down, and instead let my hands settle lightly over his.
Growing up asthmatic made me a liability, so I was forced to train it into a weakness I could control, instead of it controlling me.
I went through hellish breath control drills and scenarios until I could regulate airflow under pressure.
By the end of it all, I could delay a strangulation trigger for up to ten minutes.
More than enough time to frustrate an attacker.
“What I do know…” I choke out, “…is that you keep…confusing your desire to kill me…with your desire…to fuck me.” I catch another thin breath, then keep going.
“You want one, not the other. You can’t…
handle another rejection…from a basic ‘worm’ like me…
so it’s easier…to just kill me and be done with it… Right?”
That shot-in-the-dark assessment lands. Hard. Because his glare turns to ice.
“Shut the fuck up,” he grits out.
“No.” I manage a tight, hoarse laugh. “This would be…so much more fun…if we were naked.”
“You’re fucked in the head, aren’t you?”
“Says the man who’s…currently trying to murder me.”
Something shifts. A crease forms between his brows. His cold, dark eyes glaze slightly, like he’s zoning out, caught in some silent war.
Then… “Fuck!”
He jerks back, hand snapping away from my throat like it zapped him. For several tense beats, he just stares down at me, tortured. And then he scrambles off the bed, glancing around the room. “Where’s your inhaler?”
Rubbing my neck, I croak, “I don’t need it.”
He doesn’t listen. With frenzied movements, he flings open the nightstand drawers and rifles through them, then the dresser drawers, knocking things over in search of it.
A few frantic seconds later, he’s towering over me, inhaler in hand.
“Come on. Sit up. Take it.
“I said I don’t need it.” I swat his hand away. The adrenaline rush I’ve got going right now is more than enough. “Strangulation doesn’t trigger me.”
“You sure?”
“Why? Worried I might die?” I let out a breathy laugh. “You need help, boss man.”
He sets the inhaler on the nightstand and sits beside me, taking over the task of massaging my neck. His touch surprisingly gentle.
There’s so much concern etched in the creases between his brows. His frustration with himself is almost palpable.
Why do things have to be so violently erratic between us? Always swinging from chaos to care.
“You’re such a kill tease,” I grumble. “Always threatening me with the allure of death and never following through.”
He responds with a shake of his head, conveying that he thinks I’m loco.
“I’m just saying,” I go on, “it feels like I’m being cheated out of the full ‘Castellos savagery’ experience.”
“Blame yourself,” he says, gentle fingers still massaging my neck. “Killing someone who isn’t afraid to die gives me no thrill.”
“Translation: you can’t kill me because your cock won’t let you.”
“Do I look like the kind of man who thinks with his dick?”
“There’s a first time for everything.”
With an irritated sigh, he yanks out his pocket square and stuffs it into my mouth. “You talk too much. I’ve got a migraine and I need to think.”
I laugh around the mouthful of silk but don’t bother removing it.
I give him the silence he clearly needs, letting him work through whatever war is going on inside his head.
All the while, his fingers move gently over the very neck he just had wrapped in his hands, where bruises will no doubt bloom by morning.
Tormented dark eyes trace every inch of my face like he’s seeing something for the first time. And a raw, almost pained sigh-groan slips from him, before he murmurs, “How did I not notice?”
“Mhm?” I mumble around the fabric.
“You’re...fucking beautiful.”
Well...this is new. I’ve been told I have “pretty eyes,” “sexy lips,” and “perfect tits” before. But “beautiful?” That one doesn’t get tossed at me. Especially not from someone who looks like he does.
Yeah. He’s definitely messing with me.
I’m under no delusions. I’m aware that, in the looks department, I’m as mid as it gets. If this narcissistic Adonis is throwing the “beautiful” line at me, then he’s working an angle. Is he testing out flattery as a means to some end? Seduction as leverage, maybe?
Whatever his game is here, I hate it. From anyone else, I’d shrug it off. But from him? It’s dangerous. Because it would be too easy to fall for it. Too easy to want it to be true. I’m too goo-brained when it comes to him.
And God…what I’d give to have him see me as beautiful.
A searing sting spreads in my chest and I turn my head, blinking hard at the wall.
But his hand is there a second later, cupping my cheek, warm and sure as it brings me back to face him. “Keep them on me, beautiful.”
You cruel, cruel bastard.
“You asked why I’m here?” His voice is low, rough. “Your eyes.” His thumb sweeps back and forth against my cheek. “I try to sleep, breathe, live, and your fucking eyes are all I see. Like a siren call. So here I am. I can’t stay away.”
Thought you said you were here to kill me, but okay.
I arch a brow, silently asking if I’m allowed to speak now.
“Not yet.” He shakes his head for added emphasis. “Chances are you’ll say something that pisses me off and make me want to kill you again. I prefer you like this. Quiet and obedient.”
I bite back a laugh. So cute, being all torn and conflicted.
He stands, shrugs out of his jacket, and lays it neatly on the other bed. Then snags a pillow and gets in bed beside me, stretching out on his back, long legs cross at the ankles. Arms folded loosely over his chest. “Need to shut my eyes for a bit.”
I blink at him.
“I know I’m downright irresistible and ooze sex appeal,” he mutters through a yawn, eyes already half-closed, “but try not to molest me while I’m out. I’m a light sleeper.”
I roll my eyes. “Are you—”
“Shh. No talking. Don’t make me gag and bind you for real.”
I bite down on the giggle threatening to barrel past the ball of silken pockets square.
His lidded gaze flicks to the space between us. “You can come closer if you want.”
What are we, sixteen? I shake my head no.
With a displeased grunt, clearly not a fan of rejection, he shifts closer to me anyway.
If he had the faintest clue how much I crave him, ache for him, burn for him, he would keep his damn distance.
I scoot away, widening the gap between us.
“Knock it off,” he growls, and shifts again, closing the gap.
When I start to scoot toward the edge of the bed, his hand shoots out and grabs the waistband of my shorts.
With one firm pull, he drags me back until we’re pressed up against each other, his body warm, solid, unyielding.
“Should I tie you up to keep you still?” he murmurs, voice pitched low, dark with threat. Or…invitation?
When I don’t answer, he tugs the silk from my mouth.
“I thought you were smart. How do you not get it by now that I’m addicted to being close to you?
” He glides his palm over my shoulder and down my arm, slow and lazy, like he has all the time in the world to drive me insane.
His touch, casual as it is, stokes the mad lust I’ve been desperately trying to keep down. “Please…stay close.”
Body flushed, heart hammering, nipples pebbling beneath the thin fabric of my camisole, I somehow manage to breathe out, “Okay.”
His hand keeps going, tracing the curve of my waist before settling on my hip with possessive ease. With that, he closes his eyes and slips off. Just like that.
For a man who doesn’t trust me an iota, he sure is relaxed around me.
Meanwhile, I’m trying not to come apart. On the brink of hyperventilating from being enveloped in his overpowering aura. Turned on and tempted.
His lips are right there. Full and infuriatingly perfect. One tilt forward and I could taste him.
It’s taking everything in me not to lean in and take what I want. I’m usually good at suppressing my desires, but lying here with him is akin to locking an alcoholic inside a wine cellar and telling her to behave.
I’m an absolute mess right now. A hot, aching, lusty gooey mess.
And he’s just...asleep. Breaths deep and even, body lax, jaw slack.
Unbelievable. He wreaks havoc on my senses then sleeps like a baby.
Chest tight and full of emotions too big and tangled to name, I stare at him until my own eyes grow too heavy.
I don’t know when sleep eventually wins out, but the next time I’m awake, the room is bathed in sunlight and Stefano is gone.
His poetry book is still here, though. Left behind on the bed, face-down and open, marking the spot where he’d been.
Yawning, I pick it up and flip it over.
Two stanzas are underlined.
I ache for silence when you speak,
but crave your voice when you are gone.
You break me just by breathing near,
and I thank you for the ruin.
There is no safety in your arms,
no peace behind your gaze,
and yet I fall into you still,
like war is something I could crave.