Page 57 of A Debt So Ruthless

But one sentence from Elio and I’m back there, back to being a desperate, awkward kid. Why the hell do I let him get inside me like this? Why the fuck do I care if he doesn’t like my freckles? They’re part of my face and the only reason he has to look at them in the first place is because he took me, because he –

“I like them.”

The whirlwind of childhood humiliation and confusion instantly ceases inside me, a storm collapsing in on itself. I shake my head, making wet tendrils of hair slap against my shoulder blades, because I have nothing to say to that.

So I go back to my question. The one he didn’t answer.

“Why did you do it? Why did you get shot protecting me?”

Some dark emotion shutters the back of his eyes. He pushes off from the counter, turning towards the island where I left the wine bottle. He pours wine into the wineglass with his back to me and, as casually as someone might mention the state of the weather, says, “This body ain’t worth shit, Songbird. I’d put it between you and a bullet any day of the week.”

I gape at him, staring at the muscled power of his black-clad back. Scarred though it is, that body is an anatomical marvel. Even someone who hates him has to acknowledge that fact. Acknowledge the power packed into that six-foot-four frame. He’s so big that he should be clumsy, but he isn’t. Every movement is controlled, dark grace.

This body ain’t worth shit.

For the first time, I get a glimpse of something other than the hardened tyrant Elio Titone. I get a glimpse of something I recognize in the most sincerely visceral way. A sense of unworthiness that grows like a thorny, viny weed, watered by guilt and by grief. I recognize it because those same strangling vines grow deep in my belly, too. They’ve been there ever since my mother died and I didn’t.

Something happened to him once. Something I would probably understand all too well if he would ever deign to tell me.

He won’t, though. He instantly shuts down that sliver of vulnerability by coolly adding, “Besides, nobody else is allowed to hurt you.”

Nobody else.

“But you are,” I hiss. “You’re allowed, is that it? You fucking like it, too. My ass learned that lesson last night.”

A new stiffness enters his spine. A moment ago he’d been holding up the wineglass, swirling it, but he sets it down in a tight movement. The crisp sound of the glass hitting the granite rings out like an alarm. This time I actually do step backwards and away from him as he turns and advances on me. The granite edge of the counter digs into my lower back, but the pressure only lasts a second, because Elio’s big hands are on my waist and forcefully spinning me around. The movement forces the espresso cup from my hands, and it goes crashing to the floor, sending ceramic shards and the last sips of wine spewing across the stone tile. I gasp, flinching when leather drags at my hips, thumbs hooking into the elastic waistband of the sweatpants and yanking them down. And not just the sweatpants. The panties, too. I’m completely bared to him.

Smooth leather glides across my hip and ass then presses into the place he spanked me. I can’t tell if the touch is meant to me soothing or claiming. Maybe both.

“No bruises. No redness,” Elio mutters. His fingers dig into my flesh, ever so slightly, and I can feel a terrible, heart-timed pounding drum up between my legs. “I was gentle last night, Songbird. I can go harder. Much harder.”

I let out a shameful eep of protest. Am I protesting his words or my own body’s intense reaction to them? Even now, I can feel slick dampness gathering at the apex of my thighs.

“But I didn’t go hard,” he says, his voice grating slightly, ragged at the edges, “because that wasn’t what you needed.”

“How the hell do you know what I need?” I grit out, wriggling under the pressure of his hand.

“Because I know you,” he says.

It’s an absolutely absurd declaration. His ego astounds me. There’s not the slightest trace of doubt in his voice. I scoff in disbelief, making an awful, bitter noise at the back of my throat, but he just moves in closer to my back, fabric of his trousers teasing against my bare skin, his breath a hot stir at my ear.

“I know you,” he repeats. As if saying it a second time somehow makes it true. “Under stage lights and sunshine, I’ve seen you bleed your soul right out of your body.”

I still, because no one’s ever described my playing in such a painfully beautiful way.

“I know your birthday and your school schedule and the colour of your eyes when you’re angry,” he continues, and there’s something relentless, merciless, about the way he speaks now. Like he’ll separate out every molecule of my being, unravel my whole entire life.

“I know your freckles are paler now than they will be in the summer. I know your best friend is Willow and your boyfriend was Brian, and that’s was, not is, because if he tried to touch you now he’d have a bullet in his brain before he could fucking blink. I know what kind of panties you’re wearing, or rather not wearing, at this very moment. I know how beautiful you look drenched in my blood, that your pussy tastes like paradise, and I know you don’t make music only with your violin, because when you come for me, you fucking sing.”

He knows all of this because he’s watched me, watched me even more than I’d thought. This goes beyond my public music performances. This is deeper, deadlier, more obsessive. Thinking about him watching me reminds me of the cameras everywhere, and in as emotionless of a voice as I can muster, I tell him to pull my clothing back up.

I expect him to resist, but he doesn’t. He skims his leather touch down the sides of my thighs to grip my sweatpants and underwear. There’s something almost worshipful about the way he does it. A reverent slide down my legs, so slow I almost let out a moan. I bite it back and try to revel in the relief of having myself covered. Elio turns back to the island, grabs the wineglass, and hands it to me.

“Here,” he says smoothly, as if the previous conversation hasn’t even happened. “This is the kind of glass you need for this wine. It lets the wine breathe. Opens up the flavours.” His eyes shift from the drink between us to my mouth. “Try it.”

“I don’t want it now.” I truly don’t. My momentary feeling of victory, of freedom, evaporated the moment he entered the room.

One of his dark brows notches up slightly.

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