Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
Sienna
The present
It wasn’t exactly a lie; I do plan on taking a nap.
Having been given eavesdropping pointers by Alessandra years ago, I plaster my ear against Fabien’s office door.
“The woman you saw with your sister after the Kirksey fiasco, that was Remi Landry, your brother’s girlfriend,” Saint says, and my jaw falls open.
Sweet as sugar Remi Landry is Angelo’s girlfriend?
“Word is they’re quite serious, and he’s crazy about her.”
“My brother?” The shock in Fabien’s voice mimics my own. “Never thought stick-up-his-ass Angelo would be crazy about anything other than spreadsheets.”
Agreed.
“And the bobcat is actually her house cat,” Saint continues.
I shudder. Better hers than mine.
“That wasn’t a fucking house cat,” Fabien corrects Saint, and I hate that I’m agreeing so much with my husband.
Current husband!
“Meeting’s set with Angelo and the capos tomorrow at three o’clock at the Garden District house.”
“You really think your brother will give up the throne without bloodshed?” Saint wonders.
“Honest to God, I don’t know what to think at this point,” Fabien admits. “Not after Kirksey fucked me over. And as much as I hate it, I need the family behind me to help take that fucker out. He’s gone to ground, and I need all hands on deck.”
I cover my own hands over my mouth and slowly tiptoe away from the office. Hurrying to the bathroom, I lock the door, my heart pounding out of my chest as I retrieve the hidden cellphone and power it up, hitting the programmed number.
Kirksey answers on the first ring. “Sienna, I knew I’d hear from—”
“Two million in cash, and you’ve got a deal.”
I’m so tired of being the victim of my story, I’ve decided to become the villain of the Calvani’s story.
Quietly moving to my room, I crawl into bed and drift to sleep, with images of a shovel and freshly broken ground.
A real nap did nothing for my headspace; I’m still feeling out of sorts when I rouse. Needing to burn off whatever these feelings are, I change into a tanktop and leggings, and make my way to the home gym.
Rolling out a yoga mat, I begin with a few sun salutations. Years ago, my therapist suggested yoga to help ground me. Didn’t work then, so I shouldn’t be surprised that it’s not helping now.
“Damn, your cute little toes. That needs to go on the list.”
My nose wrinkles as I rise to standing, hating the way my eyes land on a shirtless Fabien and his fox tattoo. And unfortunately, lower, to athletic shorts that fail to hide his sizable bulge. “Don’t tell me you’re into feet now.” I cringe.
Fabien’s mood shifts from playful to lethal. “What did you have to do when you were madam?”
“If you already know you’re not going to like the answer, then why ask the question?” Something awfully close to shame colors my cheeks. I shift to a downward dog to avoid looking at him, frustrated with myself.
Not only is this man a danger to my life, but he’s a danger to my headspace.
There’s a presence behind me, and with a squeal, I’m yanked up by my ponytail, my back plastered to Fabien’s bare chest. Catching our reflection in the mirror, his eyes are twin blue embers, one hand gripping my ponytail as his other is around my waist. “Hate me all you want, but it was you who chose to ignore my letters from prison. You who chose to marry that asshole. You who chose—”
“To be kidnapped because of your fucked up family? Yeah, I’m not taking responsibility for that one,” I inform him coolly.
Fabien leans in, and I freeze. He inhales deeply, and with a growl that does unwanted things to my body, he releases me.
My chest heaves as he watches me, and I fucking hate that my I’m reacting this way.
“Do you hate me, baby?” His eyes pin me to the yoga mat.
“I’d have to care to hate you, Fabien,” I tell him with disinterest, forcing my breathing to return to normal.
“You hate me.” He grins. Fucking grins as he rolls out a yoga mat of his own. Silently, he shifts to plank and begins thrusting his hips. Over and over and over, with graceful fluidity.
It’s obscene and ridiculous and juvenile, and yet here I stand rooted in place, watching him. This can’t be the grounding my therapist had in mind.
My body thrums, knowing exactly what it feels like to be underneath Fabien when he’s moving like that.
“Fine line between love and hate. Wouldn’t you love to hate me this way?” He cranes his neck, his eyes locked on mine as he shifts to his forearms and continues to thrust his hips, his cock nearly touching the ground beneath him on each pass.
“If you’re trying to rile a hate fuck out of me, you’re wasting your thrusts,” I inform him, spinning on my heel and marching out.
Reaching the safety of my bathroom, I lock the door before I strip and turn on the shower. Catching my reflection in the mirror, I do a double-take. I’ve never looked more like eighteen-year-old Sienna than I do now, with my flushed cheeks and, oh my God, is that hope in my eyes?
“Stop it!”
Not waiting for the shower to warm up, I climb in and grab the spray, bringing it between my thighs. Last time I did this, I was washing away Michele’s cum. This time, I’m washing away my desire for a man I refuse to want.
My head thunks the shower wall, the water clearly not getting the job done. I’ve been sexually frustrated since I halfway fucked that client. And I one hundred percent blame it on Fabien being the world’s worst cuckold.
A moan escapes my lips, and there’s a masculine groan to match it.
My eyes snap to the shower door, to where Fabien’s watching me.
“Get the fuck out,” I snarl.
His hearing must be off, because he opens the shower door.
Moving the nozzle, I spray him in the face.
Fabien charges, and I squeal, his body caging me against the wet tile as the shower head falls and sprays wildly. I grab my razor, holding it out like the feeble weapon it is.
He easily wrangles it from my hand, flicking the blade from the handle. The sharp piece of steel is now held between his fingers as the handle drops.
“No,” I cry, as he turns the blade and slices a line down his pec. Red dribbles down his chest, and he gathers the blood with his fingers.
I’m frozen in place as he moves his bloody fingers to my chest, and we both watch as the crimson moves down my tits, my stomach, and lower.
“Just when I think you’re the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen, now I have an image of your perfect tits covered in my blood.”
“You’re sick,” I hurl at him, my clit throbbing with hypocrisy.
And the huge smirk on his face tells me he knows it. Fabien places the blade flat in my palm. “Get a little taste of bloodlust. See how revenge feels in your hand. Make me bleed for you.”
My eyes meet his as I position the blade between my fingers, and he doesn’t flinch as I slice his other pec.
Blood rivets down his chest, and I watch in morbid fascination as I run my finger through it.
“And what if I moved this blade lower?” I dare him, moving it down his stomach without drawing blood.
The metal hovers at his happy trail, and the huge erection just beyond it.
“You’re not going to cut off the cock that fucks you,” he says with laughter in his voice.
“That’s not how the saying goes, and fucked me, past tense.” I drop the blade and give Fabien a shove toward the door. “Get out. And I’m changing the locks.”
“Our date’s at seven.” Amusement flickers in his eyes as they take an entitled stroll down my naked body. I grab the nozzle again in threat, and he holds up his hands in surrender. “Going.” He walks out, closing the door behind him.
Waiting until I’m sure he’s gone, I let out a groan as I bring the spray between my thighs, coming embarrassingly fast.