Love – the real kind.
An offer of reality, one I’ll take if she chooses to give me those three words back.
I stare around the room, taking in the smell of her skin, the gentle shake of her frame, the slight tremble in her lips against my chest. Perfect, but for the feel of agitation still building in her, the need to avenge still consuming her.
She starts fidgeting, occasionally stroking my arm as if she’s got something to say. I look out the window, sighing at the inevitability of what she’s going to try getting out of her mouth.
“You still want to do it, don’t you?” I mutter. Her head nods on my chest, causing another infuriated sigh to blow out of me. “Why can’t you just behave like a good girl would?”
“Because I’m not one,” she squeaks. “Never was.”
I sneer, part hating that about her and part loving her all the more for it. “You, little Alice, are becoming a pain in my ass.” I keep staring out at the bright, crisp day, gazing at the light clouds tumbling by without a care in the world. “Will you stop being one if I find a way to let you do this?”
She tips her head up to look at me, red eyes still glistening. “Probably not, but I will give you your every minute. Promise.”
Hmm.
Chapter 16
Ally
Several maids arrived in the room about half an hour after he’d left, all of their hands filled with bags. I watched on from the bed, still part in shock about his words, as they all went into the huge walk in wardrobe, then I tiptoed in when they’d left. A whole side of the hanging area and drawers had been stacked out with women’s clothes, most of them in exactly my size. Shoes, too. And bags. And boots. And jewellery. And just about anything any girl would need for every possible occasion that might crop up if they lived in this kind of wealth and luxury.
I sat in there for a while looking at it all, trying to imagine myself here, living a dream beyond this time I’m in. I could. I could do that for him, try living his life and finding some sense of realism in it. What sort of girl wouldn’t be able to do that? None. They’d all be clapping to themselves and giddy with excitement. Loved by Malachi Jones. Living with him. Sleeping with him. Being part of this crazy ass world that seems to be above the rest of the realm below it.
I want to do it.
I will do it.
God help me, Ineedto do it because this tired heart inside me tells me so. It’s so full of him now, so consumed by him and his ways. It both breaks and yearns for him, for his touch, for the strength he provides. But there’s no excitement for me until Franco Greene is dead. I can’t allow myself it. Can’t allow his talk of love to sink in, nor can I bring myself to let the very same words out of my mouth no matter how much I wanted to. And I did. I wanted to be swept up in the moment. I wanted to let those three words tear out of my lips so he knew, so he believed, so he’d live and we’d live and we’d sail off into his freaky ass world with our own version of truth engrained, but I couldn’t. All I could do was get into his hold and let him try to feel the words rather than hear them.
I don’t know if that worked or not.
Nor do I know where he’s gone now.
I get dressed after a while, choosing a relatively cool sweater and jeans, and look at the make-up counter that’s miraculously arrived in the bathroom cabinet. It takes a while, but before I know it I’m looking more like me from before all this. It’s the first time I’ve felt good enough to do it on my own, as if the memories of both being raped and killing someone are finally dissipating because of those words he spoke and the time we’ve had. Love. He loves me.
I smile quietly, privately, and look at my reflection in the mirror. Still don’t really understand it, but here we are - a prince and a rogue – in love.
I shake my hair in my fingers, flicking it over to the side. One way or another, we’re finalising this conversation. I’m ready for another argument if it’s needed, and very ready to be as much of a pain in his ass as I need to be to achieve my own goal. Him doing it for me, while heroic in some way, is not going to cut the grain for me. At the very least, I need to see Franco’s eyes while he dies. I’ll know it's real then. I’ll know it’s over.
Maybe I’ll crumble then.
~
The day goes by with no Malachi and no one to argue with. I wander through it, looking at pictures, investigating rooms, taking in some of the magazines with varying articles about Malachi Jones and his world. The person they’ve written about isn’t my Malachi, no matter the printed images of him alongside the columns. The man they talk of seems harsh, malicious even as they discuss him carving up investments and people’s lives with that action without care to accountability. That’s not the man I know, not anymore. That’s not the man that sat on this floor and told me he loved me, nor is it the man who rode with me, pushing me to find myself again. It isn’t even the man who hurt me to cover other men raping me. Although, I suppose it is a man who breaks things. It just isn’t one who fixes things after he’s torn them apart.
Eventually the sun begins to set and I’m left with an empty mansion and no one to talk to. I end up fiddling with his piano, perhaps hoping I might be able to play if I concentrate hard enough. I can’t. It’s just a jumbled mess of noise and stupidity. But I do find some of the notes he played for me – our song. I look at the outside world darkening, continuously pressing the two keys I’ve found that bring on our sound. It’s a flat noise, like something you’d hear in a horror movie. Disturbing really.
But not to me.
Movement at the far end of the house pulls my attention, and I look up at the sound of feet coming towards me. Two of his team of men walk in, one of them beckoning me as if I should follow. I do, tracking them out of the house until I’m put in a big SUV with another two of them in the front.
We wait a while, stalled in the moment, until eventually a maid comes out of the house with a bag in her hand. It’s passed through to me, and I put it at my feet unsure what’s going on, as the SUV starts moving. It whisks us through the night traffic to go fuck knows where. I suppose it’s to Malachi one way or another, and that’s fine by me in reality. Maybe we’re going for another strange ass meal. Or another bike ride. I’d rather be killing a Greene, but whatever at the moment.
“Get changed please,” one of the guys up front says to me. He turns and looks back at me, passing me a small box. “Put this on.”
“Changed?”
