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I walk back to the main part of the house and glance down the hall to Cristiano’s study. The light is still on, although the sound of the buzzing has stopped. Hurrying, I cross both living and dining rooms to the kitchen and breathe a sigh of relief when I’m inside. Cerberus, laying on his bed in the corner, lifts his head. He wags his tail which thuds against the floor.
“Shh,” I tell him with my finger over my lips, but he’s excited and probably lonely sleeping in here. I sneak over to him, pet him while imploring him to stay quiet. He licks my face and nuzzles against my ear. It’s the sweetest thing. I’m tempted to just curl up with him, but I don’t.
Once he’s settled, I get up and walk to the drawer where I saw the flashlight. I consider taking one of the sharp knives but decide against it. I have nowhere to keep it and I remember clearly what Cristiano did when he found a simple nail file on me.
Holding the flashlight, I test it. It works and I smile. Petting Cerberus one more time before pushing through the swinging door of the kitchen, feeling a little more self-assured.
But that smile has barely faded when someone grabs me from behind.
I open my mouth to scream but a big hand closes over it and I feel the unmistakable metal of a gun against my ribs. I’m lifted off my feet and carried backward to the wall, the heavy flashlight clanging to the floor. I try to bite the hand clamped tight over my mouth and also find kicking is useless, like kicking a brick wall.
It’s Cristiano. Even in the dark I know. Even injured, he’s too big, too strong. He’s not gentle when he pushes me up against the wall, his forearm at the back of my neck keeping me pinned, the gun brushing my temple.
“I could have killed you,” his deep, low voice reverberates against my ear. While my heart is racing, he seems not at all out of breath.
He uncocks the gun. At least I hope that’s what the sound is.
My hands are pressed flat to the wall, my cheek smashed against it. I’m having trouble breathing.
As if sensing that, he takes his forearm off me and spins me around. He’s keeping me in place, hands on my shoulders, as he looks me over, forehead furrowed, eyes dark.
“What are you doing down here, Scarlett?”
“Did you know it was me when you body slammed me like that into the wall?”’
“Count yourself lucky I didn’t shoot first then investigate,” he says rather than answering me.
I look at him. He’s naked from the waist up and I see blood, just a trace of it, high on the inside of his left arm.
“I asked you a question,” he says.
“I—” I look at the gun in his hand and my mouth goes dry.
Shoot first. Jesus. He’d have done that? Is he that wound up? Am I surprised? He was just attacked at a public event.
He tucks the pistol out of sight into the back of his jeans and looks me over, forehead furrowing. I wonder if that’s because of my clothing choice.
“What are you doing down here?” he asks again, meeting my eyes, his a little unfocused.
“I,” I start but stop. He’s close enough that I smell whiskey on his breath. “Are you drunk?”
He gives me his signature growl. I swear he’s part caveman. Then he steps back, stumbling once before turning to glance at me, then away again. He walks back to his study.
“Hey. I asked you a question.” I follow him but he’s worlds away. When we enter the study, I see the nearly empty bottle of whiskey on his desk.
“You almost killed me. You owe me an answer.”
He turns to me, eyebrows raised like he’s surprised but there’s something else. Something off. He’s distracted, like he was earlier when he got that message on his phone.
“I don’t owe you anything,” he says.
“You pulled a gun on me.”
“You’re supposed to be in bed. What are you doing down here?”
“I wanted to see my brother.”
He shakes his head. “You are so fucking stubborn. Do you know that?”
“I’ve been told a time or two.” I fold my arms across my chest.
He looks me over again. “I bought you clothes. Nice clothes. What the fuck is this?”
“You said if I need anything, I should add it to your order.”
“I didn’t mean this. Don’t wear it again. And go to bed. Don’t fucking come out of your room again like that. I could have fucking killed you.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t be walking around with a loaded gun while drunk. If I’m going to have to marry you and live here with you—”
“We’re not playing house, Scarlett.”
“If I’m going to live here with you,” I start again, “We need to get a few things straight. First—”
