With This Ring: To Have and To Hold Duet Book One Page 9

  “You’re hurting me. Really hurting me.”

  “You think this hurts? How about this?” He squeezes the fist in my hair.

  I cry out.

  “Let me tell you about hurt. Let me tell you what happens to a woman who is made to watch her family forced to their knees before her eyes.” As he says it, he forces me down, crouching with me as my knees hit cold, uneven tile.

  “Please.”

  “Hurt is when her husband is humiliated before her eyes. When her first-born is bound, immobile, and executed with a bullet to the back of his head. Hurt is when his blood splatters across her face and the terrified screams of her children begin. Hurt is when we are made to watch my mother—”

  His voice breaks and he has to look away, to swallow hard. When he returns his attention to me, the fist in my hair tugs even harder.

  “Hurt is when your mother is stripped and what she doesn’t give is taken from her before your eyes by your fucking fiancé,” he jams his finger into the middle of my chest but at least he releases my wrists. “While your brothers stood by with guns at the backs of two children’s heads to force them to watch when they turned away. To force them to bear witness to the unspeakable assault on their mother. That’s fucking degradation, Scarlett. That’s true degradation. So, don’t you dare use that word. You have no right to it. You have no idea what it means to be degraded.”

  I’m sobbing now, not for myself, not because he’s hurting me but for her and for him and for all of them. For my parents and for Noah, too.

  “I’m sorry,” I blubber. “I’m so sorry that happened—”

  “That didn’t just happen,” he spits. “Don’t you get it? They did it. They made it happen. Your brothers. Your fiancé.” He shakes his head then, abruptly releasing his hold on my hair and stepping backward so I fall forward onto my hands.

  He turns away, walking to the sink.

  I watch from my place on the floor as he turns on the tap and washes his face, mutters a curse into the towel he uses to dry himself.

  Cerberus whines from the corner.

  “I’m sorry,” I say again. “I’m sorry I said those things to you when I knew you hadn’t touched me. I’m sorry that my brothers hurt your family like they did. I’m so sorry that it was my family who did that to yours. I’m sorry…” I trail off, sitting back on my heels, thinking, blubbering now because I am sorry. I’m sorry for all of it.

  I rub my face, look up to find him watching me.

  “I understand if you need to hurt me. Punish me for what happened. I do. And if you’ll let my brother go—”

  “We’re back to your brother again. You’ll do anything for your brother.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Thing is that my family’s gone. Nothing will ever bring them back. Not hurting you or him or crossing off every god damned name inked into my skin. Nothing.”

  “I don’t know what you want. I don’t understand what I’m supposed to do.” I wipe my eyes but the tears keep falling.

  He comes at me fast and I scramble back but hit the wall. He takes me by my arms and hauls me to stand. He takes my wrists when I push against his chest, raising them over my head, pinning them there.

  That’s when I notice the red on his collar, the dried blood on his neck. That’s when I realize what he’s been out doing.

  When I look up at his eyes again, I find them on my mouth.

  “You’ll cross off another name tonight, won’t you?” I ask, my voice small.

  His gaze slides to mine, then down to my mouth again. I lick my lips.

  “Burnt sugar,” he says instead of answering me.

  “What?” Thick lashes cast shadows over his eyes, shielding them from me.

  “Your eyes. They remind me of it.”

  I just stare up at him, unsure what to do, what I’m supposed to say or do or even think. He’s not making any sense. He touches my cheek with his free hand, brushes fingers lightly, softly over my cheekbone, down to my jawline, over my throat and down. Down to close one hand over my breast.

  I gasp.

  He swallows as his hand weighs my breast.

  “Are you afraid of me?” he asks more quietly but no more gently.

  I stare at him.

  “Not for Noah but for yourself. Are you afraid of me?”

  “Yes.”

  He leans in close, inhales deeply. “Good. Because you should be,” he says, his lips brushing my cheek, the corner of my mouth when he does. “Because you don’t know what I want to do to you.” He slides his hand over my belly and down.

  “Cristiano,” I say, his name a gasp as his hand travels farther south.

  “Do you know?” he asks again and when he cups my sex over the dress, I rise higher on tiptoe. I wasn’t even aware I was on tiptoe. “There’s an emptiness inside me. A hunger,” he starts, and I whimper, my hands fisted, wrists caught in one of his hands. His eyes appear almost black now. “And I want. God. How I want.” Both of his hands tighten for one moment before he abruptly, unexpectedly releases me.

  He steps back.

  It’s so sudden that I stumble forward.

  He stares at me, all dark eyes and damage and barely controlled beast. “Sit down, Scarlett,” he growls.

  I keep my eyes on him as I reach for the back of my chair and lower myself into it trying to figure out what just happened. What is happening.

  He gets the whiskey. He must keep bottles everywhere. He carries it to the table along with two water glasses. Too plain for whiskey, I think. My father would never have done that. For him, whiskey was a ceremony.

  Without asking, he pours two fingers into each glass, pushing one toward me before swallowing the contents of his and refilling it. I don’t touch mine. He then takes his spoon and reaches into the Crème Caramel sitting beautifully at the center of the table, the deep golden caramel dripping down the sides of the custard.

  He doesn’t cut off a piece and put it on his plate. This whole thing, us sitting here eating dessert after what just happened, it’s insane. It makes no sense. But he dips his spoon in, slicing into the custard. As caramel drips off the spoon and onto the table, he brings it to his mouth and closes his eyes. I watch him. Watch him eat like he’s just placed Holy Communion on his tongue. Like it’s sacred.

  When he opens his eyes again, he looks at me, but I can’t read him. He eats another, bigger bite, then another. He gorges himself on it, drops of caramel dotting his chin.

  “Eat,” he says in that grunting tone.

  I lift my spoon and with a trembling hand I take the tiniest spoonful. My throat has closed up. I won’t be able to swallow it but I’m too afraid not to try.

  “My mom used to make this and let us have it for breakfast,” he says. I swear if someone walked in here, they’d think this was the most normal situation. Think he wasn’t unhinged like I know he is.

  He wipes the caramel off his chin, pours more of the whiskey into his glass and drinks it like water. Leaning back in his seat, he sets the cup down loudly.

  “Eat,” he barks.

  I take another small bite, but he shakes his head and sits up. He scoops a spoonful of it using his spoon and brings it to my mouth.

  “Eat it.”

  I open because I don’t know what else to do. Before I’ve even finished that bite, he makes me eat another and another until I feel like I’ll choke. When he finally stops, I wipe the back of my hand over sticky lips. I watch him stand as I force down the last of it.

  I stand too if only to put space between us.

  He backs me against the wall again and splays one big hand across my belly. Before I can think or open my mouth to ask what he’s thinking, what he’s doing, he kisses me. With sticky caramel lips, he kisses me.

  Our eyes are open at first but then his close. When he draws back, he looks like he did when he ate his first bite of the too-sweet dessert. Like this is sacred.

  He opens his eyes, kissing me again, sucking upper and lower lip into his mouth in turn. His mouth is wa
rm, his taste sugary with a shock of whiskey. I feel him against my belly, feel his hardness. His hand slides up and closes over my throat. He’s not hurting though. Not squeezing.

  The kiss deepens, sensual and erotic, and I taste his tongue now. And something inside me wants this. Wants him. I don’t know what it is or why. There’s a part of me that’s like the part he just showed me. Deeply damaged. Broken. So broken it can’t ever be fixed. Can’t ever be whole.

  And when he draws back my heart flutters, missing a beat. I find myself leaning toward him, feeling the loss of him.

  We look at each other for a long moment. I hear how quiet the house is. How completely silent. Even the sea outside, the walls are so thick in here, you can’t hear it.

  His eyes fall on his hand at my throat. He caresses it and I wonder if he’s thinking about snapping it. Wondering if this would just be easier if he did snap my neck. I’m sure he can do it in an instant.

  But then he drops his forehead to mine, and I realize his breathing is as short and choppy as mine. He mutters something I can’t understand, then straightens, draws his hand back down to my stomach.

  I look at it too, see how big it is. How it spans the whole of my belly.

  “Did you know that part?” he asks, voice quiet. “Know what he’d done to my mother?”

  I don’t want to answer.

  “Did you?”

  I swallow. “I overheard my brothers after. I don’t think they knew he’d do that, but they…they didn’t stop him.”

  He looks at me. “Do you know what he said to her when he finished? Just before he slit her throat? Did they say?” he asks, eyes so earnest that it’s almost sad to see him like this.

  I swallow, shake my head no. I wish I knew, though. I wish I could tell him.

  “I need to know what he said, Scarlett. What Rinaldi said.”

  “What difference does it make?”

  He takes a step back, eyes shielded again. “I need to know.” With a deep breath in he runs a hand through his hair then looks at me again. “Go to bed, Scarlett,” he says quietly, like all the energy has bled from him. Like he has nothing left.

  “How did you survive? How did your brother? They thought they killed you all.” They celebrated it. I won’t tell him that part though.

  “Dante was off the island. A last-minute change of plans. Me? They mistook me for a soldier. Executed my best friend in my place. I was in the room though. Bleeding out from the bullet wounds. Dante found me the next morning. My uncle and Charlie hid us.”

  I nod.

  “Now go to bed.”

  “What about you?”

  His eyes are distant, unfocused at least for a moment. “You want me to bed you?”

  I feel my stomach do a flip but shake my head because that’s the only right answer.

  “Didn’t think so. Go upstairs now then. The door across from mine with the lock on the outside, you’ll sleep there tonight.”

  I look at him, confused. “Why haven’t you put me in a cell with my brother?”

  “I should. I would if I were smart.”

  He moves to the kitchen door, opens it. But when I stand there, he returns to me, comes so close I feel his chest against my chest and my back presses to the wall. He puts one arm up on the wall between me and the door. He’s so close I can feel his breath on me, feel his heat on me.

  “You need to go. Now. If you stay, I’ll do more than kiss you.”

  I swallow.

  “You have exactly three seconds to decide.”

  He gestures to the door with a nod of his head and I don’t wait. I slip underneath his arm and scurry upstairs.

  13

  Cristiano

  I let her go. Let her slip away. I don’t know how I have the self-control to do it.

  That night, I don’t even trust myself to sleep in my own bed. Not with her in the room across from mine.

  There’s something about Scarlett. It’s true what I said. There’s an emptiness inside me. A hunger I need to fill. I want to fill it with her.

  In the morning I take a shower in the bathroom in my office. I jerk off but it doesn’t take the edge off. I want her. I need her.

  Fuck.

  I sit behind my desk and am running my hand through my hair trying to figure out what the fuck is wrong with me when Lenore knocks then opens the door to my office.

  “Did you sleep at all?” she asks me, setting the tray down and arranging a pot of espresso, a cup and a plate of food I won’t touch. She glances at the photos strewn across my desk, careful to set the things down around them. She doesn’t comment on any of it.

  “I’ll sleep tonight.”

  “Dante just got in. He’s having a shower and will be down soon.”

  I nod. I have to remember Dante can take care of himself. He has a hard time being in the house. Harder than me. I know that. I understand it.

  “Is Scarlett down yet?”

  She shakes her head. “Go get her. Bring her in here.”

  “You could be less heavy-handed with her. You scare the girl.”

  I look up from the desk. “Well, maybe that’s a good thing.”

  “Cristiano—”

  “Get me the girl, Lenore.”

  She looks like she has more to say but purses her lips, nods and leaves.

  Scarlett asked me last night why I haven’t put her in a cell, and I don’t know why. I don’t know what it is about her. I’m not sure what happened last night. How things went so off the rails. Maybe it was meeting with the families. Seeing them all again like that. Maybe it was the killing after. That couple. It didn’t feel right. Maybe because they were old. I don’t fucking know. All I know is it didn’t feel right.

  I take out the ledger from the bottom drawer. The ones who aren’t tattooed on my chest I keep track of here. I write down their names, write down the dates next to them.

  Before closing it, I leaf through the pages and read some of them out loud. It’s a ritual of mine. Every time I add a name, I read from the list those that felt like the couple from last night did. A remembrance of sorts. Not that they deserve it. They had a hand in my family’s massacre, no matter how small.

  I gave my uncle the instruction years ago. I wanted anyone who had anything at all to do with their murders, no matter what role they played. He has obliged me. He does good work. Thorough work.

  But maybe the ones that don’t feel right are a mistake. He’s not infallible.

  There’s a knock on the door and I close the ledger, expecting Scarlett.

  Lenore enters with another tray carrying a second coffee cup and more food. “Scarlett will be down in a few minutes. I assume she’ll eat with you.”

  “I wasn’t inviting her in for breakfast.”

  “Well, the girl needs to eat and if she’s in your house, you’re the host.”

  “She’s not exactly a guest. Take those away.”

  Lenore stops, looks up at me, eyes narrowed, jaw set. And I have a flash of memory. It’s that look. The one she used when she was angry with any of us. My smile must confuse her at least momentarily before I school my features and tell her again to take Scarlett’s cup and plate away.

  “You listen to me, young man. Scarlett is your guest. Period. You will feed her. And you will treat her with respect.”

  I snort.

  “If your father were here—”

  “He’s not here!” I snap and instantly regret it. “Fuck.” I shift my gaze away then turn back to her. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right. I know how you miss them, but I’m worried about Scarlett, Cristiano.”

  “Why?”

  “She had the window wide open when I went up there.”

  My heartbeat doubles at this, remembering our conversation two nights ago. “What was she doing?”

  “I don’t know. She said she was just taking in the sea air but I’m not sure. You just take care with her. They hurt her too, remember. They killed her parents too and God knows what else th
ey’ve done to her or her brother.”

  It takes all I have to keep myself behind my desk.

  “I don’t interfere often, but this needed to be said,” she adds on.

  “Fine. You’ve said it. You can leave the things. I’ll make sure she eats. When I’m finished with her, have Alec take her down to see her brother. Jacob De La Cruz will be by in about an hour. I don’t want her to see him here.”

  She nods without questioning me and I wonder again just how much Lenore truly knows.

  14

  Scarlett

  I walk downstairs unattended and find Alec waiting at the bottom of the stairs.

  “This way,” he says.

  I follow him through a corridor I’ve not yet explored to the last door. Alec knocks and opens it on Cristiano’s command. He stands aside and I walk in to find Cristiano freshly showered, although looking like he hasn’t slept, wearing a different suit than he had on yesterday. The other man is there, too, on the couch. He’s sipping from a cup of coffee. Cerberus, who was lying on a bed in the corner, lopes toward me. I get the feeling I’m disturbing his morning nap.

  Leaning down, I pat him.

  Cristiano stands up and looks me over, then dismisses Alec. He rubs a hand over his clean-shaven face like it feels foreign to him. Maybe it is because I’d assumed the five-o’clock shadow was permanent. Actually, I hadn’t realized I’d filed away so many details about his appearance and it annoys me a little that I did.

  The memory of what happened last night is making my cheeks burn. Making more than that burn.

  I touched myself last night. I hated myself for it, for thinking of him, for feeling his hand on me there. For remembering the feel of it. For coming at the thought of it, of him, his mouth on mine, eyes on mine, hands on me.

  Blinking my gaze away, I banish the memory and concentrate on petting Cerberus who nuzzles my neck when I crouch down.

  “Cerberus,” Cristiano says and points to his bed.

  “I don’t mind.”

  “I do.” He snaps his fingers and the dog obediently returns to his place.

  “He’s quite the guard dog,” I say, trying to get back to our banter. Trying to pretend like what happened last night isn’t on the forefront of my mind. Is it on his?