He tears his gaze away from me and steps over my curled legs. I wait for him to slam the door in my face. Maybe a part of me even wants him to—but the bastard leaves it open, and I can’t resist the part of me that scuttles over the threshold and kicks it shut with my foot.
We stay like this for what feels like an eternity. A million questions well in my throat to fill the silence.Where was he? Was the tape sent? What will happen next?My teeth lock them away, however, so I settle for watching him instead. His back is turned to me. He doesn’t move an inch, and the shadows drape us both as if struggling to conceal the naughty little secret we share.
Tension swallows me down whole. I wonder if he’s affected, but almost as soon as the thought crosses my mind, he’s already headed down the hall and into the bedroom. The door slams shut behind him, hard enough to jar the entire damn building, it seems like.
Sighing, I slump against the wall. My borrowed lingerie itches. The shower did little to ease the all-consuming ache that encases me from head to toe. It doesn’t diminish any when I curl my knees up against my chin and rest the good side of my face on top of them.
It just lingers, seeping into my bones like the tendrils of fear sown by Vinny that will never ever fully leave. The devil’s made his mark on my skin for all of eternity.
Whether we both like it or not.
Dante
I wake up hungover and painfully hard. My soul is hard. My resolve to find Espi, whether he wants me to or not, is even harder. Mycockis steel...
It’s a defect I struggle to ignore, gritting my teeth until I taste the damn enamel being ground away. When I lift my head and shrug the blankets off, I don’t find Stacatto’s whore lurking within one of the corners. I vaguely remember leaving her by the door, but for all I know, she could have run. Or maybe Arno’s men had gotten bored and decided to “borrow” her for the night?
It’s not the thought that drives me to my feet, and I wince as blood rushes to my throbbing head—both of them. I have to piss—maybe brush the fucking taste of that woman, blood, and booze from my mouth while I’m at it.Thoseare the concerns that drive me into the hallway.
I don’t notice that the bathroom light is already on until I’m over the threshold, nearly running into the slim figure leaning against the sink. Her ass juts out, her pale hand clutching the sink’s basin like it’s the only thing capable of holding her up. She has my toothbrush clenched between her teeth. Apparently, she’s as eager to scrub away the taste of my cock as I am to erase her. Her eyes meet mine as she woodenly manipulates the toothbrush before removing it from her mouth and spitting. Wordlessly, she turns the faucet on, washing her mess away. Then she holds her hand out, presenting the toothbrush to me.
I take it, easily muscling her body away from the sink and against the tub. My eyes narrow as I make a show of sticking the bristles beneath the running water and grinding them beneath my thumb, chasing her essence out. But it’s as futile as picking up a dropped piece of food from the floor and pretending that unseen bacteria haven’t already tainted it. I takea leap of faith when I slather the brush in toothpaste and shove it against my tongue. One hard scrub and I know I failed; she clings to the surface, and I’m grinding her taste between my teeth.
I don’t let on though. I spit, rinse the bristles, and then return it to the cabinet. I use my hands to splash water onto my face, scrubbing at the crust that’s formed around my eyes. I shut off every sensation but the mechanical motions. I almost succeed in blocking her out completely, but when I turn for the shower, she’s still there. Her eyes home in on the moisture sliding down my chin. I don’t think she notices my hand shoot past her to wrench the shower faucet on until the water switches on amid the squeal of rusty plumbing. Then she scuttles out of reach while I strip my bloodied shirt and jeans. Her eyes trace my calves as I shed my boxers though, and I know she’s making note of the scars on my hips.
Fuck her.
The rag I gave her is near the drain, and I stoop to make use of it myself. Her blood is on it, but I pretend not to notice the pinkish stains and drag it over any part of me I can reach. I pay her no attention as I douse myself beneath the shower spray, taking my damn time. Only when the water goes cold do I step out of the tub. Naked, I pad across the floor and enter the hallway, pretending that she isn’t watching my every step.
I slam the door behind me, cutting her view off. Then I take my time fishing for a fresh pair of jeans and a T-shirt. I don’t bother to towel off, and the moisture causes the clothing to cling to my damp skin, but anything is better than the inevitable question of what will happen if I use any sort of friction on a certain part of my anatomy.
It’s a pain in the ass to get the zipper up. It’s more uncomfortable to move. It’s harder to walk. My cock is a stubborn, ignorant, greedy fuck, and I almost entertain the idea of attempting to get myself off alone. I run a hand down my thigh, but my dickdoesn’t react. I think of a pair of pink, broken lips parting for me and it fuckingjumps.
My fingers curl, strangling the air. Fuck her.Fuckher.
Arno can take her from here.
I have myself convinced of that when I enter the hall and barrel straight toward the kitchen. I snatch the milk from the fridge and drink right from the jug. Then I fish out a carton of eggs, crack two, pour them into a glass, and knock them back raw. I wash the gruesome mixture down with chunks of bread ripped right off the loaf. It isn’t until I start to clean up the mess that I realize she’s watching me from the couch.
I stiffen, but I don’t understand what makes me shove the bread across the counter, though I never voice an invitation to her out loud. She rises anyway. She stole the shirt I left in the bathroom and is wearing it over the shit Arno gave her. I don’t react as she comes closer. I swallow the rest of the milk and tear off another slice of bread just as she cautiously prods the loaf with slim fingers. She observes the substance carefully, turning it over in her hands.
I imagine that she’s used to better breakfast options: omelets and shit shoved right down her fucking throat, served on a silver spoon. Just when I think she’ll refuse, she takes a delicate bite and swallows. Her expression is guarded, but she doesn’t hesitate to chew off another small piece.
“If you want eggs, you can make them yourself,” I tell her, pushing past her to stand on the opposite side of the room.
“I don’t know how.”
I cock my head, eyeing her over my shoulder. A part of me wants to sneer at her admission; of course a pampered bitch wouldn’t know how to cook. But then I remember my own limitations—what it felt like as a kid to be too terrified to use the stove, so I’d force myself to eat the eggs raw instead and be fucking grateful for a full stomach. I don’t like relating to her, even on such a small, superficial scale.
“Then don’t eat them,” I snarl.
She nods, unconcerned by the venom in my tone. Then she skirts around the counter to gather up the carton and return it to the fridge. Her back is to me, but I can almost count her heartbeats by the trembling ripples that shake her back. “D-did you send it?”
“Arno has it.” I face the wall, eyeing the nicks and dents left by only God knows how many previous owners. “I don’t know if he has yet.”
“He’ll kill you, you know,” she says, her voice cold and matter-of-fact. “You didn’t cover your face. He’ll—”
“He can get in fucking line.” Someone like Stacatto is the least of my worries. The only bastard I fear these days lived within my own skin.
