I can’t resist running my thumb across that delicate chin. She jumps, her eyes flitting to mine. Still glazed, but the longer I touch her, the more life returns to them.
“Donatello?” I hear Fabio say.
“I was calling you shrewd,” I reply.
He laughs. “You’re damn right I am. But I’m pleased to say that we’ll live to see another day thanks to you. Though I do have to wonder the effect this all might be having on your…guest.”
I’m looking right at her, wondering the same damn thing. Her eyes seem darker than ever. For once, I can’t tell what she’s thinking.
“She’ll need support, Donatello,” Fabio says. “In fact, a good show of faith would be letting her return to her family—”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say.
“Stay put and get some rest.”
I hang up, heading back down the hall.
The guard, Evgeni, is still waiting in the doorway, his arms crossed. “I still think she should stay here. Her father is on his way.”
“Tell Mischa that one little instance of cooperation isn’t enough to fix everything.” I step closer to the girl, grabbing her hand. “The engagement isn’t off yet.”
She’s still mine.
To prove it, I keep walking, feeling her fall into step behind me. Until a figure exits from an elevator up ahead, flanked by two guards. Sympathy is the last emotion I expect to feel for a man who put me through hell. In this one instance, perhaps I’ll make an exception when it comes to Mischa Stepanov.
He looks haggard, more of a zombie than a man. When he spies his daughter, he lunges for her, crushing her to his chest.
A heartbeat later, he seems to notice the blood smeared across her wrist. Blazing, his eyes cut to mine.
“It seems like the guard stationed near your wife and son attacked them,” I say. “She… Willow defended them on her own. The bastard is at the hospital—”
“I already have him secured,” Mischa growls. “He’ll talk soon enough.”
“And he has plenty to answer for,” someone declares from behind me.
A look over my shoulder reveals Evgeni, still in the doorway, his expression even more guarded than it’d been a minute ago.
Reluctantly, Mischa releases his daughter, advancing toward the suite.
“Your wife and son are safe,” Evgeni adds, stepping aside. “Though there is a…guest, we will need to discuss.”
I can’t help but notice that the blond has vanished from her perch. Could she be hiding again?
Evgeni’s eyes meet mine before I can be sure. “Willow should stay here, with her family,” he suggests for the third time.
Maybe he’s right.
Knowing that doesn’t prevent me from grabbing her hand, though, pulling her with me. I’m sure he’ll follow, but I don’t fucking care. I drag her into the elevator, striking the button for the penthouse floor.
Only when we’re back inside my suite, do I finally face her.
I expect that blank stare, but when I cup her jaw against the flat of my palm, she comes alive, her lips fluttering, confusion widening those dark eyes.
“I should let you go with them. You got what you wanted,” I tell her. “Your family is safe. Mischa is in the clear. Everyone is fucking happy. We’re even.”
I don’t have to look in her eyes to know that we’re not.
Stepping closer, I force her to crane her neck just to hold my gaze. “What the hell do you want from me?”
Her flashing eyes convey the answer. She already named her price. She wants my fucking soul.
Well, she can have it.
I turn my gaze to her hands, slim and pale, bruised from her struggle. “You can stab me if you want.”
It’s the wrong choice of words. She flinches, and I grit my teeth, surprised by the guilt I feel. “Or you could beat me,” I suggest, changing tact. “Sell me on a platter to the Saleris. Take your pick.”
But again, her choice is obvious. She wants me to bend to her will and give her the one thing I can’t.
And I won’t. Pride aside, not because I swore not to—but the morality of it, if I even believe in that kind of shit. It’s wrong to take her throat in my hands, sensing the pulse surging beneath. Wrong to toy with that palpitating little artery until a hint of fear appears in her eyes.
But it’s worse to want her. To feel her heat on my skin, sense her taste on my tongue. It’s wrong to crave her.
“Do you really want to play with fire, principessa?”
No. She wants oblivion. To forget the hell she’s been through. Because of the attacker. Because of me.
As greedy as ever, she inches closer, pressing her face to my chest first. Then her searching hands crawl up to my shoulders, finding my jaw. Her fingers shake, as if she’s fighting against the contact with all her might—but she can’t resist whatever impulse drives her to stay near me. To touch me. With gentle pressure, she makes me face her.
In her eyes, I see another glimpse of the same emotion I felt the night she climbed into bed and crawled beneath me. Is it pity?
Or something far more dangerous.
“Take what you want,” I tell her. “I don’t care anymore. Just tell me what you want from me. You can have it. Just take it!”
She runs her tongue along her bottom lip, and I hiss through my teeth. Of course, she’d want the one thing I’ve denied her all along.
Corruption.
I can see it in her eyes, mingled there amongst her hate—the very emotion that’s haunted me all this damn time. Because it shouldn’t be there, not in her. Not after what I’ve done.
Even Liv lost that gleam after a while. I remember it now like a punch to the gut. One day, I looked into her eyes, and they
