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It wasn’t God he should have been begging for forgiveness, but me.
He did beg me, in the end.
Not that it did him any good.
I finish writing the cheque, hating my dead father as I do it. I hate O’Malley, too, for what he’s done to Deirdre. And maybe that’s hypocritical, because I’m far worse a man than the greedy Irish fool. He sold Deirdre, but I’m the monster who bought her.
“Let him go,” I tell Curse. I got what I wanted out of O’Malley. I have no use for any of the money he has left, and honestly? I want him as far from Deirdre as possible.
Normally, I’d just kill him. Both for trying to screw me over and for the crime of what he’s done to Deirdre. I have a real fucking thing about fathers failing their families, something my papà learned the hard, bloody way. But even after showing her the contract, I get the impression that Deirdre is still holding out hope her father will come back for her. That she still loves him even though he sure as hell doesn’t deserve it. If I kill him, she will grieve him, and I don’t want her wasting a single second of attention or emotion on her piece of shit progenitor.
The only man who will matter in her life from this day forward is me. I will be the only one she feels anything for.
Even if that feeling is hate.
Chapter 11
Deirdre
After Elio leaves, I stand silently in the room for a long time. I’m exhausted but too tired even to move or to sit down. I stare at all the music stuff, a shrine to violin, barely seeing it.
He really does want me to play for him.
I don’t understand it, but it seems to be true. He brought me here for my music. The only question now is why?
Something he said to me earlier in the night comes back to me. When we were alone in the darkness. There’s something inside of you I need to understand. I close my eyes, trying to remember what else he’s said, but this entire night is like a broken mirror in my head. Some bits and pieces are clear before cracking and leading into darkness. I can’t put it all back together right now.
I sway on my feet, then force myself into movement, heading for the bathroom. It’s just as gorgeous as the bedroom. It has the same natural grey stone I’ve seen elsewhere in the house for the floor, along with the biggest bathtub I’ve ever seen and a giant shower in the corner, enclosed by glass. There are a few switches on the wall, and I learn quickly that one of them is for a floor heater as warmth flows into the soles of my feet.
I catch sight of myself in the mirror and gawk.
I look like a fucking mess. Mascara rings my eyes and is smudged along my freckled cheeks. My hair is a tangled disaster, and my outfit is even worse. The top half of my dress is basically destroyed, hanging down in front of my hips and legs like an apron. My upper body is swimming in Elio’s jacket, far too large for me.
For some reason, I don’t rip the jacket off my body. Not at first, anyway. I let my fingers drift over the beautiful black fabric, tracing the perfect stitching. Every time I move, the silk lining drags over my nipples creating a resounding twinge between my legs.
What the fuck am I doing?
I cry out with confusion and disgust at myself, tearing the jacket down over my shoulders and letting it fall to the warm stone floor. I kick it as far away from myself as I can.
But now my reflection looks even worse. My front is streaked with dark blood. Elio’s blood.
He bled for me.
Then trapped me here.
I go to the bathroom door and close it. Once again, there’s no lock, and I purse my lips, weighing my options. I can stay bloody and sweaty and try to tie my dress up like a halter around my neck.
Or I can risk Elio walking in on me in the shower.
I can’t get that image out of my mind. The huge man with the leather gloves striding in here like he owns the place because he does. His dark eyes tracking over my wet, naked body.
At least there are towels in here. If I have to, I can cover myself with something quickly. And it’s not just towels in here. A quick look in the cupboards under the marble countertop tells me the room is better-stocked than a spa. Bottle upon bottle of shampoo, conditioner, moisturizing lotion, perfume. Serums and sunscreens and exfoliating acids. There’s makeup, too. Face masks. Even a waxing kit.
One thing I don’t see, though, is a razor.
I guess they don’t want me to have anything sharp.
I survey the expansive, expensive array of bath products, noticing yet more bottles in the shower, and wonder if all of this was already here or if it was brought here just for me. I can’t imagine that all the violin stuff was just hanging around this room – who else but me would use it? It had to have been purchased for my arrival.
