I see it now. Why she’s really so angry. She’s dwelled on this image of who she thought I was, but it was a lie. I’m not the Don she remembers.
Though was that man really so good to her? That much of a role model?
A man who couldn’t even please his own wife?
No.
“Was it because of what I did to Gino?” That has to be it. I grab her, pressing my thumb against her bottom lip as if forcing the answer there. It makes more sense for her to mourn her own father than me. “Is that where your grudge stems from? I don’t regret killing him. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
She slaps my hand away. Finally, I think I have the right answer. Until her eyes meet mine, blazing with more pain. More hate.
The guilt ripping through my chest is only a fraction of what I deserve to feel—a lifetime of pain for hurting her. “Damn it. If Gino isn’t the cause, then why…”
Her lashes flutter, and in her eyes, all I see is my own reflection. Me.
“Just tell me what you want,” I say. Like I’m fucking begging.
But she refuses me, turning for the door.
“No!” I grab her wrist before she’s taken a step, easily yanking her back. “Wait. I want to hear it,” I rasp against her ear, gripping tighter as she tries to pull away. “I want to know. Fuck. Just tell me what it is. Why?”
Why she held on all these years, letting that rage fester and smolder…
Why the fuck couldn’t she move on? Forget me.
“Tell me!”
Her harsh exhale packs the intensity of a scream.
I see her fist forming, but I don’t move. The blow strikes the middle of my chest, drawing a startled grunt. I don’t even have to look to know it’s the spot where her name is etched into my skin.
She extends her fingers, letting the nail of one bite into the flesh. Without her having to say a word, I understand her point. I’m a liar. I tell her she meant nothing, but the evidence to the contrary is here, right beneath her fucking hands.
In the moonlight, the whole thing gleams, starkly grotesque. Her name, scrawled in red, done with a knife and the aid of a mirror. I remember that…
Trembling, I stroke the outline of the first letter with the pad of my finger. I see myself, cutting it initially, letting the blood run rivulets down my skin as I ground the ink into each fresh wound. I remember the pain—searing, burning agony—and knowing that it wasn’t enough. Nowhere near punishment enough.
How could I do that to her?
“You want me to cut myself again?” I ask her, gripping her hand so that the palm is flat against my skin. Her muscles tense, threatening to break away, but I grab her harder. “I’ll do it, if that’s what you want. Tell me!”
Though it’s not like I need her permission.
Reaching into my pocket, I withdraw her dagger. I don’t even remember carrying it all this time. It still has the Salvatore girl’s blood dried over the blade. Regardless, I press the sharpened edge to my chest.
“If that’s what you want. I’d slice myself open again—but we both know it wouldn’t be enough, would it?”
Anger blazes across her irises—Hell no, it wouldn’t.
“You should have never put your trust in me.” A tall order to ask of a child. Still, it’s an argument I feel compelled to make. “You should have moved on. Lived your perfect life. You deserve that life.”
Symphonies and fancy schools. Money and safety. A father who’d kill for her. A life most would kill for.
Only she doesn’t agree, for reasons I doubt even she understands. Again, she fights, resisting my grip—but I don’t let her, clenching her forearm until she relents.
“I won’t insult you by thinking the past can be erased. It can’t. What I’m offering you is…”
How would Fabio put it?
“Peace.”
I finally release her, but she doesn’t run, so close I can smell that inexplicable scent wafting off her skin. Roses. I breathe it in and, for a moment, I forget everything between us. The past. The hate. I just smell her as a woman…
Perfect. Beautiful. It’s so damn apparent that she doesn’t belong here, amid cloying clouds of dust and cobwebs.
She’s always been destined for more than me. More than anything I could ever offer her.
“You were never meant for me, you realize that?”
My fingers are in her hair. It’s so damn soft, anchored in a skull so delicate it wouldn’t take much effort to crush it. “You belong to some pretty, pampered prince.”
Someone like Vin. A man who will cherish her. Worship her.
Who won’t get drunk off her scent, greedy for more. Unhooking my fingers from her scalp, I find that pulse in her throat instead. It flutters madly as I stroke my thumb against it. Then lower.
Her daring stare is an antidote to common fucking sense. Impulse overwhelms restraint, and I flatten my palm against that slight collarbone, feeling her breath catch. Her eyes darken, revealing nothing, but her body betrays her. She gulps as my calloused flesh grazes her silken skin. Shudders when my fingers slip beneath that gauzy neckline. The globe of her breast is in my grasp before I know it, firm enough to fill my palm and soft enough to squeeze.
She lurches onto her toes when I do, her eyelids fluttering, lips so damn wet.
She’s a bitter little vice, sharper than heroin, more virulent than alcohol, deceptively sweet. I’m drunk on the scent of roses. My nostrils flare to steal every drop, dragging her deep into my lungs.
I wonder if she tastes like the flower. Fragrant. Ripe. My mouth waters. With single-minded focus, I remove my hand from beneath the bodice of her dress and go to her thigh instead, creeping under the gauzy
