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Our gazes lock. The truth is naked and messy. How can something so beautiful be so ugly? The smell of sex and us clings to his fingers. He’s not asking me to tell him. He’s finding the answer for himself in my eyes. Fisting his hair in one hand, I slide the other between our bodies and finish what he started. A little pressure on my clit is enough. When my body bows and my vision blurs, he crashes his mouth on mine and lets go.
Our thrusts are like the tangling of our tongues, savage and desperate. We’re each chasing our release so that we can go over together. Even in this, in our shared physical goal, we’re at war, punishing each other with pleasure.
He comes while kissing me as aftershocks convulse my body. In the aftermath, he holds me. The storm has wreaked its havoc, and it leaves me like a shipwreck washed up on the shore. The headache that built in my temples flares.
I push on his chest, trying to get up. “My head. I need a pill.”
“Stay.” He kisses my forehead and detangles himself from me, making me feel cold when he pulls out.
I should tell him where to find my toilet bag, which I left in the bathroom cupboard, but sleep is already stealing over me. I’m dozing off by the time he returns with a glass of water and paracetamol.
“Here.” He cups my nape and helps me to sit up before bringing the glass to my lips. “Drink everything. You’ll feel better for it in the morning.”
I let him slip the pill onto my tongue and drink the water like he instructed. When the glass is empty, he puts it aside.
“One more thing and then I promise to let you sleep.” He sits down on the edge of the bed, brushing his fingers over my nape. “Where is my ring?”
For a moment, I consider not telling him just to be spiteful, but I’m so tired. I’m tired of looking over my shoulder. Of feeling guilty for what I did to my dad. Of all the lies. “I flushed it down the toilet.”
He raises a brow. “When?”
“Tonight. But if you’re thinking about going hunting for it, you’ll probably need a plumber to dig up the pipes.”
“Don’t worry,” he says, picking something up from the nightstand and holding it in front of my face. “I have another one.”
The insignia on the gold ring comes into focus, the image of the wolves facing off that’s burned into my mind.
“How many of these damn things do you have?” I ask.
His tone is laced with humor. “Apparently, not enough.”
Why doesn’t he sound angry? And why, when he says, “Sweet dreams, cara. Now you can sleep,” is there a note of regret in his tone?
He increases the pressure of his fingers on my neck. He’s squeezing those sensitive points like he did when he held me in a similar grip on the day I took off his ring in the hotel room in George. That was the day he threatened to put me out. Now, he’s pinching harder. I fight to free myself as his hold becomes painful, almost unbearably so, but I’m no match for his strength.
The last thing I hear before the light fades is, “I’m sorry, cara la mia bella.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR
Angelo
Enough pressure for long enough on the carotid arteries on both sides of the neck can render a person unconscious. I learned the trick in a martial arts class. I practiced the skill on the kids in my school until the principal sent my father a letter to complain about my violent and invasive behavior.
That night, my father gave me a hundred-euro bill and a gun. I already knew how to shoot. Owning a weapon of my own was just a formality. I was eleven years old. I’ve shot many bullets since then, but none of them was aimed at killing. Up to now, my father has always been pulling the trigger, a task that has now fallen on me.
But I don’t want to think about the business, tonight, not when I’ve claimed my woman with a strange need to both consume and protect her. Not when she’s naked and the night has too few hours.
Sabella sleeps peacefully. Her dark hair is splayed over the pillow, the silky waves and neat curls from earlier tangled. Her long lashes brush her cheeks. I take in her features—the fine set of her cheekbones, the straight line of her nose, the plumpness of her lips, and the beauty spot just above the corner of her mouth.
I take my exploration lower, noting the faint bruises my fingers left on her neck. I don’t regret the roughness because that’s part of me. I can change it as little as I can stop wanting her. The marks, however, I do regret. I caress the arch of her neck and trace the delicate line of her collarbone. She’s like a bird, her bones as frail as a dove’s. Her breasts are small and pert, her nipples a beautiful shade of peach.
