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But every time he tried to do so, he only saw Solomon.
His son, Solomon, as he exited the panic room and asked for his daddy. His son as he took a step towards Michele before a bullet took his life.
A low shiver went down his back as he felt himself slipping—going down that path of no return. And that always happened whenever he thought of Solomon.
Though he professed he had no heart, that non-existentheartbroke anew every time he recalled his son's sweet visage. Blinking away what he would never admit were tears, he shook himself, burying those thoughts deep in his mind and soul—so deep they couldn't return and haunt him again.
Instead, he focused on his pet. Especially as he watched her dip one hand lower, between her legs. Her brows furrowed as she touched herself, but it didn't seem to be with pleasure in mind. Rather, she was curiously exploring that part of herself she'd never dared to before.
But it wasn't for long. Just as she brushed her hand against the hidden part of her sex, she wrenched it back, a flush enveloping her as she reddened from head to toe. With a weary sigh she simply turned and walked into the shower.
Michele didn't take his eyes off her. Not for one moment. Even those mundane tasks—like washing her hair, scrubbing her body or brushing her teeth—were enticing in a way nothing else was in his life.
He finally felt that thrill that he'd been missing. And it had nothing to do with the fact that he was hard and growing harder by the second. No, anticipation simmered in his blood as he promised himself he would explore her body more at leisure the next time he took her.
He wanted to touch and caress all those hidden curves and all that soft skin. For the first time, he wanted to enjoy the experience, not simply await the end-result.
After she was done with her evening ablutions, she put on a long, colorless nightgown before going to her desk. From a lower drawer, she pulled a little something that she cradled in her palm, touching it almost reverently.
Michele couldn't see what it was, but his curiosity was piqued, so he made a mental note to inquire into that.
She spent a few moments like that, simply holding the item to her chest before she shook her head as if waking herself from a reverie. Then, she laid herself on the bed, closing her eyes to sleep. And sleep she did, soon curling into a fetal position from which she never stirred.
She remained like that, looking so fucking young and vulnerable he felt his pulse throb in his temple, an ineffable anger bubbling inside of him.
That was it?
It struck him as odd that she wasn't doing anything a regular teenager would do. She didn't check her phone, nor did she use her computer. She didn't text, or scroll on social media. She didn't even try to watch a movie.
She simply went from point A to point B in an efficient, brisk manner.
He blinked, unsure how to feel at her bare existence.
After that observation, more things jumped into focus—all just as odd as her.
The room was sparse. She had a couple of school books on her desk, but nothing else. There was one open suitcase in the corner that seemed to house all of her items—items she'd never taken out. That suggested she thought her stay there was temporary. Still, as Michele leaned in to peruse some of the contents he noted a few baggy dresses like the one she'd worn before, and a couple pairs of shoes.
He didn't know why the sight of her meager belongings made his heart squeeze painfully in his chest. Maybe it was because he remembered his own room at the Guerra house, equally as sparse and unwelcoming. He'd never fit in—anywhere he went. He wagered she felt the same.
A couple of hours trickled by as he simply stared at her form in the darkness of her room. He tracked each rise and fall of her chest, entranced by those minuscule movements as he'd been by Bernini's depiction of Apollo and Daphne which he'd seen on his first trip abroad. He studied every detail just as he would a work of art, and he was still left wanting.
Soon…
He'd have her again soon.
That thought pleased him immensely, and a smile pulled at his lips. At the same time, another screen flickered to life, the audio icon blipping to indicate speech. Curious, Michele increased the volume, switching his attention to that screen.
His half-sister, Assisi, walked into the room followed by her husband, Vlad.
She was the first to sit down on the couch, patting her lap for Vlad to join her.
And he did.
Michele frowned, squinting to make sense of what he was seeing.
He'd heard all about Vlad Kuznetsov—the one people called the Berserker in hushed tones. He was someone Michele hadn't wanted to touch since it would have led to time-consuming complications he had no need for.
But what he knew of the man depicted him in a fearsome manner—almost like the devil himself. To see him so relaxed as he laid himself on the couch, placing his head on Assisi's lap and smiling languidly at her was entirely antithetic to everything he knew of the man.
