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“Signor Cristiano.” Mr. Christian. He tips his head in my direction, and just like Helga, he doesn’t even bother glancing at Siân. “La colazione è nel patio questa mattina.” Breakfast is on the patio this morning.
“Grazie, Aldo. E mio padre?” Thank you, Aldo. And my father?
“Scenderà più tardi, c'era una riunione a cui doveva partecipare.” He’ll be down later, there is a meeting he needs to attend.
I nod and head for the sliding door that leads out into the patio area that sits just off the kitchen. Siân huffs and puffs, silently cursing me for forcing her to be here, for all the things I’ve done—yada yada yada.
When we make it to the table, I yank out a chair and push her into it. Her body shakes from the sudden movement, and a frown forms on her face.
“Ouch,” she jerks her arm away and rubs at her wrist. “You’re hurting me.”
Bringing my face to hers, I grip her chin and make her look me in the eye. “Topolina, what happened this morning was nothing to the pain I can truly cause.”
She swallows, the bob of her throat rolling against my hand. I squeeze a little harder, but not enough to actually cause her pain this time. Just enough to let her know that hurting would be easy. I survey her features while roughly sliding my hold from her chin to the piece of flesh right before her throat. I crane my neck, the memory of how good it felt to fuck her throat replaying in my mind.
Unease washes over her, and she manages to be brave enough to snap her head back until I am no longer touching her. I smile at her, loving to see how easy she is to rouse. This is going to be fun—our very own game of cat and mouse.
“If I want your tears, I’ll have them. And if you continue misbehaving, your punishment will be a lot worse than me spanking your ass.”
“Where is Cynthia?” she says.
I laugh out loud. “You can forget that.” I step around her and take the seat next to her.
“No,” she whines. “You told me you would take me to her.”
“And you promised you’d behave. So I’m going to tell you how this will work. This is your home. You belong to me, and if you continue to disobey—”
“I’m not your fucking property. You don’t get to steal me away from my life—”
“Steal you away. I can’t steal what’s rightfully mine.”
She shakes her head. “Why are you doing this? Why have you been stalking me all these years? Tormenting me? Killing the people closest to me?”
I suck in a breath, reach for the pitcher of water, and pour it into the glasses in front of us.
“Answer me, dammit,” she demands.
Siân jumps when I slap the glass table, and the dishes atop it rattle from the impact.
“Maledizione, Siân. Tutto quello che ho fatto è stato per te. E prima o poi lo capirai. Ora mangia.” Goddammit, Siân. Everything I've done has been for you. And sooner or later, you'll get that. Now eat.
“Io non ho fame.” I’m not hungry.
I smile, proud to hear her using our native tongue. She’s erased that part of her identity, denied her roots, all to live this deluded life she and Cynthia have drummed up.
“And all of this sick and demented shit wasn’t for me, you fucking psycho. You don’t get to harm people and say it’s because of me. I didn’t even know you before you weaseled your way into my life. You manipulated me, lied to me, abused me, and I’m supposed to believe it’s because you care. You’re sick, Christian. And I will get away from you. I will find Cynthia, and somehow, I will make you pay for this.”
She continues to defy me, and while I hate being challenged or questioned, I’m also proud. Finally, in all the time I’ve watched her, she’s putting up a fight. When it comes to me, she’ll lose every time, but at least she’s not going out so easily. Not to mention, it makes it that much more fun. Siân doesn’t really know the lengths I’m willing to go to get what I want, but she’s sure as shit about to find out.
“You and what army? Hm? You think you can take me on, topolina?”
She doesn’t respond.
“You’ve known me longer than you think, little one.”
She frowns. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Reaching for the frittata, I pick up a serving with my hands and drop it on the plate in front of her. “Think. When was the first time we ever met, and I’ll give you a hint, it wasn’t at that fucking bar.”
Her chest rises and falls in sharp bursts as she stares at me, conflicted. I can her mind racing while she racks her brain to figure out what I’m talking about.
