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Like paranoia, violence runs in our family, and it exists in the very fiber of our being, sewn into the fabric replacing our souls. It keeps us up at night.
It’s what I promise for the futures of the men who assaulted the little bird in my lap.
I don’t drop Juliet off at her house, don’t want to think of what might happen if she’s not being constantly watched. So, instead, I bring her back to the mansion and manage to carry her up to my bedroom without disturbing anyone else in the house.
Settling her in the middle of my bed, I strip off my clothes, leaving my boxers on, and climb in behind her, pulling her back flush against my stomach and hating the calm that overtakes me at her being this close.
At her being safe.
Chapter 16
Juliet
“If you think I’m leaving her here with your psychotic ass, you have another thing coming.”
The sound of Elia’s voice, dark and curt, like he’s speaking through his teeth, pulls me from the slumber I’ve tumbled into. Blinking, my eyes dart around the unfamiliar room, trying to get accustomed to the black furniture and decor against the blanket of darkness.
Where is that coming from?
My body on high alert, searching for the singular source of comfort I had through the night. Even through my state of shock, Kieran kept me close, wrapped in his embrace like he’d rather die than let me go.
I’d never felt safer, not even while living with one of the most protective men on the planet. And even though my brain recognizes the error of my desires, I can’t deny it felt good to be cared for by someone who’s willing to kill for me.
God, he killed someone right in front of me.Kieran’s brazen take-charge nature followed by his domineering attitude had made me weak in the knees even before I caught sight of the blood staining his neck, pooling at our feet.
Most of the night is a blur, but I know he saw my breakdown. Know that’s the only reason he brought me here instead of back home, as if he could sense that being left to defend against my sister’s incessant prodding wasn’t what I needed.
As if he sees more of me than he lets on.
They say the Devil knows our deepest hungers, the dirty and depraved inclinations we keep stuffed away out of fear of them being misunderstood.
I’m starting to believe the infamous, anonymous “they” are right.
My arms stretch out, feeling along the satin sheets for the body I know I fell asleep curled into, but I’m alone. More memories of the night before pulse behind my vision, making me nauseous, and I sit up on a gag, trying to will away the need to vomit. An unknown, unfamiliar man’s hands, rough and calloused against my skin as he attempted to violate me; the unnatural angle his lifeless body landed on when he fell to the floor, head missing large chunks and leaking.
A retch catches at the base of my esophagus, and I cup my hand over my mouth to catch anything that slips up.
“There’s a trash can by the night stand, if you need to puke.” A sharp, feminine voice says, hurling through the room like a knife, jarring me. A shadowy figure lounges across the room on a loveseat, the light from her phone screen barely illuminating her soft features and fiery hair. “Just try to get it in the liner; if the help has to wash out another bin, they’ll probably quit, and I refuse to mop the kitchen ever again.”
Kieran’s sister.
“The help?” I croak, trying to focus on her words and not the way my throat aches and throbs, bile collecting at the base, just waiting to be released. My lip smarts, and I raise one hand, running over a small scab at the corner of my mouth.
“Uh, yeah. That’s what some people call maid services.” Fiona’s head cocks to one side, and I can feel her peering at me in the dark. “I’m surprised you don’t know that—I thought you were rich.”
Pressing a palm to my stomach in an attempt to ease the violent cramping that flares up, I shake my head. “I’m not rich.”
“Right. Yet, the man standing in the hall arguing with my brother tells me something different.”
Rubbing sleep from my eyes, I wince at the soreness radiating through my biceps at the simple gesture, ignoring her comment. Outside, someone shouts, but I can’t exactly make out what’s being said. Either the language is garbled or my brain is.
My nausea subsides, simmering low in the pit of my stomach, and I drop my back to the plush mattress, reveling in the way my body sinks into the fabric, wishing it’d pull aNightmare on Elm Streetand pull me inside. Spray my blood on the walls as a permanent reminder of my mundane existence.
“Were you really sexually assaulted last night?”
“What do you mean, was Ireally? Most women don’t lie about shit like that, you know.”
“No, I—I know that. I just mean,isthat what happened? Or did my brother make something up to justify making me babysit a hungover stranger he’s trying to bed?”
