I laugh. Then I turn on my heel and head for the door. “You are smart, I’ll give you that. You almost had me duped.”
“I wouldn’t do it for free, you goddamn fool,” she snaps. When I look back, she’s lounging on the bed, her arms crossed defensively. “I want something from him as well. Without Mischa, you are my only shot at getting it.”
If it weren’t for her obvious disgust, I wouldn’t believe her. “Why the hell would I present you back to the man you claim to fear?”
“Because it’s the only way to save your Willow,” she replies. “And Eli, the boy. I’m sure he’ll be targeted, as well. He needs him dead, you see? Or do you want both of their deaths on your conscience?”
She smiles when I say nothing.
“Well, then. I can’t go to him dressed in a towel. Unfortunately, he doesn’t seem to prefer my body naked.”
A tacit, or perhaps intentional hint that she isn’t sleeping with this man.
“How is that my problem?”
She fixes me with a lethal smile. “It seems you have shopping to do, soldier. Don’t skimp on the budget, either. I’m a size two, and I prefer the color red. It looks lovely on the water.”
“You want me to buy you a dress?”
She shrugs. “Correction. I need you to buy me a cover. One he won’t suspect when I come crawling back. He can’t know I left him on my own.”
“Wouldn’t it be better to look the part?” I rake her over, inclined to provide my own assessment. Beneath the coy veneer, she looks exhausted. Battered. Afraid. If I were a man questioning her loyalty, I’d believe her escape if she showed up on my door like this.
Minus the nudity.
“Why the costume?” I ask.
“Darling, a Winthorp is never underdressed, no matter the occasion. If I went back to him looking like a drowned rat, he’d see through me instantly. He’s the calculating type, remember? I need to look like a queen, so confident of my role that I’d take the time to buy myself a new dress before groveling for his mercy. So is the way of my world. How did you put it? A spoiled heiress.”
Do I believe her? It’s a sick, cruel way of viewing the world.
Which means she’s right, of course.
After all, she was once a Winthorp—a family of vipers who plotted amongst themselves with the same zeal they ruled the city with.
They’d skin themselves alive rather than reveal their weakness before an enemy. In that line of thinking, a new dress would, of course trump the fear of death itself.
So is the way of her world.
16
Don
Fabio got one thing right.
She’s mine in a way Mischa will never have her—we’re too alike. It’s a similarity reminiscent of that instinctive rift between cats and dogs—but a bond, nonetheless. We know each other.
She thinks she’s seen the darker side of me, and I’ve already glimpsed the forbidden pieces of her. Beyond just her body—I’ve seen the impulses she’s learned to suppress. The fangs she won’t dare bare at the fancy dinner parties that populate her future.
She thinks by writing a note, she can get under my skin. It’s stupid to play her game by writing in return, but for whatever reason, nothing else feels right.
So, I sit in my study and fish out a new page, unable to squash the impression of being back in fucking high school. How to start?
I know you, little wife, I write. I know what keeps you up at night. The fears you dwell on inside that pretty little head, hoping your father can’t see them. I know you. You’re afraid you’ll fuck it all up, just like I did. You never felt like you were one of them.
You never belonged there.
I pause, gripping the pen so tight it rips through the page. Damn it. A sudden thought prevents me from trashing it. She’ll see that tear, and she’ll know. Hell yes, she’ll know. What exactly?
The trademark trait we share—rage. Endless, consuming hatred for what we can’t control. I can’t control her. Spilled ink and torn paper prove that everything I’m writing is the fucking truth.
I want the truth from you. I want you to spell it out for me. Every little thing. Tell me what’s in your head. Or not.
Forget Fabio and this sham deal. I’ll let you go tomorrow, back to your precious, cozy Stepanov manor. I’ll let you go. Just don’t respond. Ignore this letter and keep your words bottled up tight. I swear it on my life.
Though what worth is that?
Scratching out that line, I add another—I swear it on Liv’s grave.
I slip the letter under the closed door of that pink room and enter my own without a second thought. In the morning, her bags will be packed, and we won’t have to pretend anymore.
I’m so confident, that for the first time in days, I don’t fight to find oblivion. Sleep comes like a one-two punch, pitch-dark and dreamless…
Until I’m jarred awake by the creak of the door opening. Soft, feminine steps resonate next, drawing a groan from my mouth. So much for a peaceful sleep. I’m dreaming of Liv…
But Liv never smelled like this. My nostrils twitch, the scent unmistakable—Roses. Reluctantly, I peel my eyes open to see the culprit standing at the foot of the bed.
Fuck Fabio for giving her these clothes. This dress, in particular, is gossamer-thin, with a conservative neckline; it shrouds her in innocence, the perfect garb of a mafiya princess. White wouldn’t be the color I’d choose for her myself. Not with those dark, watchful eyes.
She looks better in black.
“What do you want?” I demand.
The answer is obvious—my new little wife took me up on my offer.
Sure enough, she extends her hand, revealing the slip of paper perched between her fingers. Damn her. I weigh ripping it to pieces.
Coward, a part of me snarls, sounding suspiciously like Fabio.
