Chapter 8 Evi
EVI
My head snaps up at the sound of a latch closing softly, and though I had started to doubt he would come at all, I find Sandro standing inside the door of our room.
For a heartbeat, I forget how to breathe.
He’s a mess, his white shirt wrinkled and stained with smears of dark red that make my stomach twist. His lip is split, his cheek already blooming into a vicious purple bruise.
His knuckles are raw, as if he’s been dragging them across gravel—or skin.
And his mercurial polished-hematite eyes carry a strange satisfaction that terrifies me.
Then he smiles. The faint curve of his mouth tilts to one side, the crooked grin soft and boyish despite the blood and bruises.
It’s the first smile I’ve seen from him.
And it doesn’t make sense—it shouldn’t make me feel lightheaded, shouldn’t make my chest squeeze and my pulse stumble. But it does.
“Did I keep you waiting long?” he asks, his voice low, gravel roughened from exhaustion or adrenaline.
I blink, flustered. “That’s… that’s alright.”
At least, I want it to be. But if I’m being perfectly honest with myself, it isn’t.
I’ve spent the last hour torturing myself with the possibilities of where Sandro might prefer to be instead of with me.
The worst was imagining him with another woman—perhaps the person he would have preferred to marry if his family didn’t need this alliance so badly.
Then my eyes sweep over him, horror catching up with me. “What happened to you? Did you… did you get in a fight?”
He wipes at his split lip with his thumb, then shrugs. “Something like that.”
Something like that. The casual way he says it makes me shiver.
He doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t explain the blood, and that scares me more than an answer would.
Sandro doesn’t pause or offer reassurance.
He just starts unbuttoning his shirt as he walks past me toward the bathroom.
His movements are unhurried, deliberate, as though stripping out of a bloodied shirt in front of his new bride is the most natural thing in the world.
“Where are you going?” I manage, my voice quivering in a way that makes me cringe.
“Shower,” he says simply. Then, with a glance over his shoulder, he pauses fleetingly. “Unless you’d rather I come to bed like this.”
My stomach flips. “No. It’s fine.”
The corner of his mouth lifts again, amused at my flustered response. The he disappears into the bathroom, and the sound of running water fills the silence.
Palms damp, heart racing, I rise from my seat at the window to approach the archway into the bathroom.
I find Sandro’s belt undone, his fingers deftly opening the zipper of his dirty slacks, and inexplicable heat throbs low in my stomach.
I’ve never seen a naked man before, but the sharp V of his sculpted abdomen draws my eyes down to the elastic of his black boxer briefs, making my mouth go dry, and I can’t look away.
On impulse, words tumble from me before I can second-guess them. “Would you… would you like me to join you?”
The question hangs in the air like a fragile glass about to shatter.
Sandro stops, his dress pants halfway down his hips as he straightens to meet my gaze.
For a long moment, he doesn’t move. Then he tilts his head, as if to study me from a new angle.
His eyes narrow slightly, not unkind, but questioning as they trail slowly down my body.
Warmth seeps beneath my skin, making me feel flushed and feverish as I suddenly remember just how little I’m wearing.
My arms snake self-consciously around my waist, one crossing over my breasts in an involuntary display of modesty.
Sandro’s eyes follow the movement before flicking back up to my face, and that seems to be all the answer he needs. “You should get comfortable,” he says finally. “I’ll be in shortly.”
The rejection—or is it mercy?—makes my chest ache, and I nod mutely before turning to flee.
I try not to listen to the sounds of water hitting tile, but every splash makes my skin prickle.
Settling onto the edge of the bed, I wring my hands in my lap.
My nerves feel stretched thin, pulled taut like a thread about to snap.
I’ve never done this before. Not with anyone. And I’m supposed to know how to be a wife? To please him? To make this night something other than a transaction? What if I disappoint him? Or worse, what if this doesn’t matter to him at all?
Rising anxiously, I pace the room, then force myself to sit on the edge of the bed once more. The lingerie clings to my skin, suddenly too tight, too revealing. My cheeks burn as I adjust the fabric, tugging at lace that does nothing to hide me. I can’t still the trembling in my hands.
The water shuts off. The shower door opens, releasing a plume of steam as Sandro steps out, and I get the briefest glimpse of his perfectly sculpted profile before he reaches for a towel. He saunters into the bedroom, clean now, his hair damp and curling slightly.
Droplets slide down the hard planes of his chest, drawing my attention to the dark, swirling ink that covers every inch of exposed flesh.
He doesn’t just look like a canvas. He’s a masterwork of art that raises goosebumps across the back of my neck.
The images he bears are… haunting. Depictions of silent screams and chilling death.
And between the jaws of a snarling beast that prowls across his ribcage, I see the blossoming purple of what might be a cracked rib.
His multitude of bruises look worse against scrubbed skin, stark and raw and feral.
It reminds me of the whispered rumors that have come trickling in since the day my parents told me I would marry Sandro.
He’s violent. Dangerous. Deadly. Unhinged.
And now, he’s traded in his blood-stained clothes for nothing but a towel slung low around his hips.
I nearly choke on the sight.
My nerves riot, anticipation and dread crashing into each other until I feel faint.
Sandro crosses the room without a word, his steps steady and unhurried as he stalks toward me like a predator closing in on its prey.
My heart stutters to a halt, when he stops in front of me.
But he doesn’t grab for me right away. Instead, his hand comes up, his finger hooking gently beneath my chin, tilting my head up until my eyes lock with his.
The weight of his gaze pins me in place.
I’m trembling, I realize, shaking so hard it’s humiliating.
And I don’t know if it’s with giddy anticipation—or downright terror.
“Stand for me, raggio di sole,” he commands.
Ray of sunshine. Somehow, the term of endearment lances straight to my heart. Is it what he calls all the women he’s been with? Or did he pick it specially for me?
His voice is soft, dark, threaded with something dangerous that somehow soothes me, and I can’t help but obey, even though my knees are practically knocking they’re shaking so hard.
My breath catches in my throat as I rise and the space vanishes between us.
I can feel the heat radiating from Sandro’s chest, the moisture clinging to his skin and turning the air between us steamy.
His hazel eyes burn deep into my soul, unspoken emotion roiling in their depths and turning my stomach into a tangled mess.
“You never need to fear me, Evelina,” he rasps, his sandpaper voice brushing featherlight across my skin, and it sends a shiver down my spine that feels dangerously close to desire. “The world might. But I promise you never will.”
The words don’t banish the nerves clawing at me, but they pierce through just enough to ease something in my chest. I swallow hard, clinging to the assurance.
I’ve heard stories, whispers about Sandro—the twin who fights like a crazed beast, the one who says little but makes up for it with the bodies he leaves in his wake.
And after seeing the evidence of violence dried on his skin—not once but both times I’ve laid eyes on him outside our wedding—I know those whispers weren’t exaggerations.
But this quiet vow promises something else.
Something that makes my throat ache with relief, even if my body still trembles.
The tension charges the air between us, and I want to do something to dispel it before it knocks me off my feet.
“You can—” I swallow hard, trying to dislodge my heart from my windpipe, and my tongue darts nervously to wet my lips.
Sandro’s eyes track it.
“You can call me Evi… if you like,” I breathe, heat swirling beneath my cheeks. “That’s what my friends call me.”
Sandro’s eyebrows lift, the corner of his lip twitching as if with amusement. “Is that what we are? Friends?”
My lips part, but I’m at a loss for words. Is he… teasing me? Or pointing out that whatever we might have will be the farthest thing from friendship? Either way, it makes fresh butterflies take flight in my stomach, and a breathless laugh rushes from me as my nerves finally get the better of me.
“I… I guess I don’t know,” I admit, smiling sheepishly as my skin flames.
Sandro’s eyes trace the lines of my face as his lips tug up into a tragically beautiful smile. The rough pad of his thumb grazes the edge of my jaw then across my lower lip, and his gaze heats. “Evi,” he murmurs, as if testing out my new name as he leans closer. “I like it.”
Then his mouth finds mine.
The kiss is slow at first, almost testing, and my stomach somersaults at the unexpected gentleness. His lips are warm, firm, coaxing instead of demanding. The molten heat of it spreads through me, liquid fire replacing the cold terror in my veins.
His tongue slides out to trace the seam of my lips, and when they part for him, the world tilts. Suddenly, all I can feel is Sandro as he strokes between my teeth. It turns my core molten, and before I know it’s coming, a soft whimper rips from me.