27. Anastasia
ANASTASIA
Ilie in bed, disturbed by how easy it is to breathe. For once, my lungs are light, and the regular weight in my stomach is gone. My body is being stupid, as if I’m a girl experiencing her first crush.
I don’t have a crush—or whatever the adult version of that is—on Nero Amato.
It just isn’t—can’t—happen. Kissing his cheek was merely a taunt.
It wasn’t meant to bring me close enough to spot the jump of his pulse or his intake of breath.
Or feel his stubble beneath my lips and wonder what it would have been like to shift my direction and give him the kiss he was asking for.
He tricked me there, so I had to get one over him. To twist the narrative he wrote himself as being a winner into my version.
My fingers brush over my lips, feeling the memory of his cheek, while wondering what it’d be like to actually kiss him. Nero would be good at it, I think. He’s too confident to not be.
Fuck my mind for going there.
It took years after Papa’s torment to even be able to kiss a guy without puking in my mouth because he ruined that too.
“What should I do if he tries to kiss me? It’s too intimate.”
Papa jerks as if he never considered the idea of his plan dipping in that direction. “Kiss him back. Do anything he demands.”
Rocks inside my stomach would be more pleasing than his words. My throat feels dry, rough, and clogged. If only actual rocks that I could extract to beat his head with were inside me—a fantastical murderous thought he’d kill me for having, let alone acting on.
“Anything?” I question, for some reason dragging out my agony.
“Anything,” he confirms. “Whatever you must to lull him into a false sense of security. If kissing appeases him, you fuckin’ do it.”
My first kiss was forever ruined. I’d spent the initial years of my adulthood after his banishment partying at clubs with Vanessa every Friday night, using strangers to erase the touch of them.
Hands, mouths, cocks—I wanted everyone from Papa’s time gone from my mind and body to trick my undoubtedly traumatized brain that sex and men don’t have to be the poisonous experience Papa forced me into.
Strangers come with their own problems, except Nero is proving not all men are like them either.
Nero is different, I remind myself of my earlier thought. He’s…alright.
The knock on my door sends me upright, fingers digging into my comforter. The door becomes the equivalent of any man from my past: evil and something to avoid because I know who is on the other side before he opens his mouth.
“Anastasia, open up.” A fist lands on the door, but it’s nothing like Papa used to bang around the house dragging Lev out of his bedroom—thus away from his computers.
I could always tell how angry he was by the impact of his fist. “I know you’re awake.
I know you. You wouldn’t pull that and then go to sleep. ”
Only twenty minutes had passed since I ran from him downstairs. I tried to watch a movie with Lev and Serafina but gave up and opted for bed instead. It’s a strange amount of time for him to wait, as if he fought with himself over coming or not.
With hesitant steps, I cross the room to open the door. Nero has each hand propping himself up against the doorframe. It reminds me of months ago, the first night we stayed in Zeno’s villa when Nero’s drunken ass knocked on my door to rave about Poland.
Clearly, he has a pattern. So, following the pattern, my mouth screws up the same way it did that night. “What do you want?”
He exhales. An exhale saying more than words ever could. That has me looking at him—really looking into his bloodshot eyes, though he only smells faintly of alcohol—and backing up a step.
He shoves off the doorframe and enters one step at a time with deadly precision. “You’re driving me fucking mental.”
“Again with the compliments.” My usual venom is weakened and without the sarcasm—one of many barriers to protect against emotional moments.
“That,” he growls. “Right fuckin’ there.
That…you…” He exhales again, this time harsher but without as much meaning behind it.
“I tried to stay downstairs. I convinced myself to sleep on the couch so I didn’t bother you.
I planned on drinking myself to near death just to stay away from you.
Three sips later, I find myself outside your door. Why is that, Ana?”
“Anastasia,” I whisper out of habit as my foot slides behind itself.
The last time I feared a man was…
Yeah. Fuck.
He catches the distance gained, and erases it with three strides. Then his hands are on my hips to keep me in place, my neck to dominate my attention. For the first time since being a teenager, making me submissive to a man’s desires.
“You never answered the question.” A type of danger that I have no protection for flares to life in his eyes. “Why am I here?”
“Because you have boundary issues.”
“Or is it, as I was saying, because you drive me fucking mad?”
“Maybe you should see someone about that.”
“I am.”
He releases my hips, grasps both sides of my face and tilts my head up. Oxygen evaporates when he’s about to do the one thing I forbade myself from ever doing with him.
He’ll demolish my barriers. That’s how this starts. One kiss, then I’m dealing with Viktor number two. Only it’ll be worse this time. I’m not sure there’s a way to survive Nero.
“Cara mia,” he whispers, his voice filled with broken desires and endless longing and the temptation to just say yes. “Order me away this instant, or I’m getting that mistletoe kiss.”
He’s done it again. Even when bombing his way into my bedroom, saying everything he has and grabbing me, he still made himself different than everyone from the past.
He’s waiting for consent.
This would be the chance to push him away, demand he leave, and pretend none of the past twenty-four hours happened.
Blayt, at this point, I’m denying myself.
I lift onto my toes.
He takes over, his fingers sliding into my hair to hold me steady as his mouth crashes against mine. I once compared his eyes to an ocean. Oceans are endless, vast, and I could very well find myself drowning in him with only a bit of eye contact.
It turns out, water isn’t the strongest force on the planet.
A storm is. As his lips demand more and his tongue brings me to life, a powerful frenzy sparks forth a giant flame and tornado-level gusts that leave me clinging for stability.
A tropical storm that tears me into rubble in his hands to be pieced back together.
We’re moving, and it isn’t until the bed hits my knees that I realize where he’s walked me to. He breaks from my mouth, panting as he pulls back for just a moment, showing the storm within his expression too. The blue that is no longer calm but full of wind.
His grip tightens in my hair as he yanks me upright, moves between my legs, and pulls my mouth back to his.
I should hate this. His hold. His control. It’s everything that has my heart hammering…but not for reasons connected to my trauma. For once, for the first time ever, I’m not seeing them.
Only Nero.
I find myself touching him. His hips, then up his side until my fingers curl into his shirt. I can’t determine if I’m holding him from fear of the unknown or fear he’ll end this before I want to.
He breaks from my mouth to slide his lips along my jaw, nipping and sucking—marking.
Don’t, I want to demand. Don’t leave more memories. The words get swallowed by his mouth, the storm not only breaking me apart but destroying my life, my dignity, and my sense of worth.
He lowers me onto the bed, following me down while somehow remaining standing. I’m thankful for that, as this morning proved what him being on top might spark and would prefer not to have a repeat.
“On the pillows,” he murmurs against my lips, and I take back all those previous thoughts.
“I’m not having sex with you.”
He smirks, gazing down as his fingers dislodge from my hair to pet it instead. “I’m not asking you to. It’s been a long day, so we should rest. But I want to do it right here, with you. A repeat of last night while ensuring a better morning tomorrow.”
Oh. Lips feeling swollen and bruised from his intensity while my legs are clamped tightly together to hide the desire coursing through them, I feel awkward and ready to agree to at least one of his demands. I push into place against my pillows and slip beneath the blanket.
Nero toes off his shoes but leaves the rest of his clothes on and slides beneath the blanket beside me, head onto the pillow.
“Sleeping in jeans is a choice. You won’t be comfortable.”
“Removing them will make you uncomfortable, and I’m happy as long as you’re content. Go to sleep, Ana.”
With my chest feeling a million degrees warmer, and my heart swelling in my chest trying to tell me something, I don’t have it in me to correct the usage of my nickname. I lie down beside him and let myself drift, fingers to my lips where the memory of his kiss will live.
Right before darkness swells around me, I feel his hand slide over my hip.
Nero is gone when I wake the next morning…and it leaves me confused.
He’s nowhere in the house, and Zeno reports he took off early.
A few hours later, we’re headed to the plane to return to Russia, and there is still no sign of him.
Message received, Amato.
This is why I never wanted him as a friend.