SEVENTEEN #2
My grip on the book I held intensified slightly, my thoughts unravelling as I watched her deflect, her smile just a bit too wide, her words rushing just a little too fast.
Gianna didn’t seem convinced that Paula was fine, though. Her dark eyes lingered on her, focused in the way only someone who’d known her long enough could manage.
For a moment, I thought she might push further, but then she relented, nodding softly as if deciding against it.
But I wasn’t so easily convinced.
The question looped in my mind, each echo digging deeper. What could possibly be weighing on her enough to prompt such a question? Was it something from her past? Something recent? Was it that arsehole ex she briefly mentioned?
I hated how much I wanted to know, how much the idea of Paula hurting stirred something primal and possessive in me.
The monster was perking up its ugly head.
I had indulged it too long. I had no control over it any more. Protectiveness wasn’t something I wore easily, but with her, it clawed its way to the surface, leaving me restless.
She didn’t strike me as the type to let her guard down easily. If something was wrong, it wasn’t something she would willingly share. But the thought of her carrying it alone didn’t sit right with me. It didn’t feel like a usual drama, something time would heal. It felt serious.
With my book in hand, Gianna stepped away, gesturing for her friends to follow, and I watched Paula’s smile linger just long enough to seem convincing.
The woman drifted away. Paula turned back to me then, her gaze catching mine, and for a moment, it felt like she could see right through me.
I pulled a smirk, keeping my tone light. ‘Not judging.’
She raised a brow, a hint of irritation crossing her face.
‘She’s my cousin,’ she said, turning away quickly, her gaze sweeping over the crowd – if only to avoid me.
The weight of Gianna’s question still swayed between us in a heavy and unwelcome way. Whatever it was that Paula was keeping buried, it wasn’t as invisible as she thought. And it left me with a gnawing need to uncover it, even if I had no business prying into her life.
Her phone chimed. She frowned, then excused herself with a polite smile, her voice soft yet firm. ‘Duty calls.’
I gave a nod. ‘Don’t let me stop you,’ I said, leaning in just enough.
Her face froze for a moment – a trace of hesitation I couldn’t quite place.
But then she turned, walking away with that dangerous grace that made it impossible to look anywhere else.
My gaze followed her, tracing the sway of her hips as her dress shifted with every step.
The fabric shimmered, clinging in places I couldn’t look at without burning.
Her hair, twisted neatly, exposed the curve of her neck, and I felt my pulse quicken, a dark and hungry edge curling in my chest.
She disappeared into the crowd, leaving me restless and more than a little agitated.
‘Mr D’Angelo?’
A fan’s voice cut through my thoughts, the Italian pulling me back to the present. I turned, schooling my expression into something resembling charm, though the disquiet in my chest refused to settle.
‘Good evening,’ I said smoothly, taking the offered book and scrawling my signature across the inside cover.
The woman’s cheeks flushed as I handed it back, her eyes bright with excitement.
I offered a polite nod, barely noticing as she drifted away, because my gaze had already floated back to the crowd, searching for her.
A silhouette caught my eye, graceful, and though similar to the hostesses, she seemed entirely out of place in the writhing sea of people. For a second, I mistook her for Paula – the dress threw me. But black dresses all looked the same to me.
The figure moved slowly, her hips rolling with feline ease, as though she weren’t walking as much as conquering the space around her. An ache spread through my lungs, recognition teasing at the edge of my mind.
It wasn’t just the Venetian mask so similar to Scarlett’s that obscured her face, but the way she carried herself: her shoulders square and head tilted just so, as if she knew the world was watching. Her presence was an echo of the nights that still haunted my every waking thought.
I pressed forward against the table, my breath catching as I watched her slip through the crowd. Something deep in my chest stirred – an unease mixing with a darker, more primal need.
What if it was her?
The name whispered through my mind, a slow burn of doubt and certainty colliding in my chest.
Restless, I pushed to my feet, keeping my eyes locked on the woman as she disappeared towards the quieter, shadowed corner of the club.
My curiosity got the better of me.
As if my legs had a will of their own, they were already following. Like the psycho I was, I moved with dark purpose, slipping through the bodies that congested the area.
She turned down the narrow passage near the restrooms, her outline lingering for just a moment. That single motion – the curve of her neck as she made the turn, the faint lift of her chin. So fucking familiar.
It had to be her.
I stepped into the passage, my heart thundering in my chest as my eyes adjusted to the low light.
She’d stopped between two walls stacked with chairs and tables, her body hidden beneath the shadow of the makeshift storage. Her hand rested on the edge of a stack, her posture tense yet poised as she peered around, as though she were waiting.
For what? Or for who?
The idea that I might be sharing her had my blood boiling. Ridiculous – maybe – but jealousy didn’t do logic. I didn’t even know her name. She wasn’t really mine. But try telling that to the thing crawling inside me.
When that first wave of fury washed over me, it left a scorching need behind – to punish.
My jeans pressed tight around my groin, each heartbeat syncing with the wrath in my chest.
Like sin swathed in silk, she let the shadows lick at her shoulders as if they knew her better than I did.
My breathing slowed, tempered, but every step I took towards her felt like walking a tightrope over a fire I’d lit myself.
Then a stranger slipped into the narrow space behind her like he was expected to be there.
My shoes rooted to the floor. Fists clenched, vision tunnelling.
The music dropped out, but my ears pounded all the same, and the animal inside me clawed for release. I didn’t think. I couldn’t breathe. My lungs burned.
I pictured my hands around his neck, squeezing until silence settled in his throat.
And her?
Christ, I wanted to punish her too. For letting him close. For not knowing better. For never really being mine – and making me forget that.
What the fuck was happening to me?
That first step towards him snapped like a trigger. It felt too familiar – like it had that night with Ezio – the moment my knuckles shattered against his jaw: that wet thwack when blood kissed the wall. It came back too easily. I remembered the heat on my skin. The burn of it.
My vision stabbed through the haze of madness, and I watched as the stranger dipped low, mouthing her throat, peeling fabric off her shoulder as if he had the right.
Then—
My lungs seized and I stopped in my tracks.
A tattoo bloomed across her shoulder blade – a flower.
Not her.
I veered into a shadowed corner mid-step, every muscle strained, my breath trapped in my throat like a scream that didn’t know whether to escape or suffocate. A sick kind of relief slammed into me. But my body didn’t trust my eyes.
I watched.
He stripped the dress from her chest – too full to be hers. No text scrawled along the skin of her ribcage. Scarlett had long-smudged verses inked there – all five lines burned into my memory even if they bled into each other too much to make sense.
Not Scarlett. Not my little angel.
I pressed the back of my head to the wall, a moan of relief leaving me. I repeated the words inwardly like a prayer, like penance: Not her. Not her. Not her.
When the recognition settled, I was suddenly afraid of my own hands – I’d nearly killed them both.
Christ…
In public.
Where people knew my face.
Losing it…
I dropped my hands, flexing the ache out of my fingers. Already turning. Already retreating. I didn’t look back. Couldn’t.
Inside the men’s room, I gripped the sink until the porcelain groaned. My reflection stared – red-eyed, hair wild. The shirt clung to my chest like a punishment.
I heaved in air as if drowning.
Because I was.
Drowning in her darkness. In the echo of Ghost and Scarlett. In the rage I’d never learnt how to bury.
I’d let this go on too far.
Fishing out my phone, I opened the Obsidian app. It was still down – since this morning.
That last night I’d spent with her resurfaced.
I would rather have her there. No changes. No detours. Just a locked room, and the silence after surrender.
I leaned over the sink again.
I nearly killed a man tonight – over a woman whose real name I didn’t even know.
My fists at the ready, my breath gone, my body convinced she was mine.
And the worst part?
I wanted it to be her.
I wanted a reason to lose control, to poke at my beast just to make sure it was still alive.
Shaking my head, I looked at the madman staring back from the mirror.
And I decided – the next time I saw Scarlett would be the last. Before this thing tore loose and took me with it.