Page 74 of Maddest Temptation

“What did he do?”

“He called a doctor and told him I had tried to kill myself and that I needed help. He gave me pills.” The ones I had seen in her house.

“Did you ever talk to this doctor?” She shook her head. “Then how did you know the pills worked?”

Francesca looked at her hands and was silent for a long while. I thought she wasn’t going to answer but then her weak voice startled me. “Because I was numb.”

I sighed deeply. “Come here.” I offered her my hand. Francesca took a while to come but, in the end, she straddled my hips again.

There was nothing sexual about it. I stared at her for a while and played with a golden strand of her hair, wrapping it around my fingers.

“Did you ever…” I didn’t know how to say this without hurting her, so I just said it. “Think about finding help?”

Francesca laughed cynically. “I’m a mess, Cassio. I fucking know that. A month after the accident, I was using and drinking all over again. I know I have problems, that’s not the fucking issue.” She was trembling. “I have daddy issues, mommy issues, relationship issues. My issues have issues, Cassio.”

Without realizing what I was doing, I brought Francesca into my arms and held her tight. It had been ages since I had this kind of physical contact with a woman, the kind that didn’t involve my dick.

“I don’t want to be broken,” she whispered against my neck.

“You’re not, Principessa,” I whispered back. “You’re perfect.”

But deep down I knew she was, and guilt began to eat me up. Paolo wasn’t the only one at fault. Bitterly, I realized that I, too, was to blame for what happened to Francesca.

She was right, I should have never let her marry another man. Now I questioned if I did the right thing, if letting her go was the right choice. I hadn’t been ready to marry her, I had just lost my sister and my father. I couldn’t give my life to her when I hadn’t planned on living. The only thing that kept me afloat had been my need for vengeance.

How could I marry someone, love and cherish them, when I didn’t want to live? If I had married Francesca then, her life would have been miserable. I would have destroyed every beautiful part of her with all my darkness. Francesca was the light that I had always fed on.

I stared down at Francesca and realized she had fallen asleep in my arms. Her chest rising and falling against mine. I ran my hand hesitantly against her hair. It was so soft. The smell was so intoxicating. So undoubtedly her.

How could she sleep in my arms knowing what kind of man I was, knowing the things I did and would keep doing? Yet here she was. Inhaling her scent one last time, I carefully lifted her in my arms and took her to my bed—where she belonged. Some part of me wanted to keep her there forever.

I woke up with a jump start. I reached out for the gun under my bed. There were noises coming from downstairs. I couldn’t recall falling asleep, but now that I was fully awake and alert, I focused only on the sound. Stepping out of my bed, I looked at the clothes dropped all around my floor. Memory of last night came rushing in. Francesca, me, what we did. The best sex of my life. She slept here. I looked back at the bed, but it was empty. The clothes on the floor were both mine and hers. Gun in hand, I made my way toward the noise.

Once I reached the edge of the stairs, I stopped. Francesca was still wearing my shirt; she was flipping something in my pan—pretty sure I’d never even used it. Her hair was tied in a messy bun which gave me the unnatural urge to set it free. It was a pleasant sight. Having her in my bed last night affected me more than I realized.

I would make it so good she wouldn’t want to leave. Fuck. That wasn’t the point here. She was making breakfast in my kitchen. Wearing my shirt. And all I was worried about was how to fuck her in order to make her stay.

Where had things gone wrong? Why wasn’t I thoroughly pissed that she was invading my personal space? If this were anyone else, they wouldn’t have even reached the kitchen. Yet again, there she was, flipping the pancake with expertise and setting out breakfast on two plates.

Two.

I headed into the kitchen setting the gun on the table, right where she could see it. No hiding it, no pretenses. I wanted her to know fully who I was and what I was capable of. Francesca jumped back but something told me it wasn’t the gun that made her do it.

“God, I didn’t see you coming. I made breakfast. I figured you must eat, even the devil must feed on something other than souls.”

I just stared at her. She wasn’t unfazed, not in the least. Not by me, not by the gun sitting centimeters from her. She pulled the plate toward her and began to eat. The one I figured was for me was still in the middle of the island.

It smelled so fucking great, my stomach rumbled. She looked at me but said nothing. It was chocolate chip pancakes…my favorite. And she wasn’t wrong, I did like eating something other than souls. I liked eating her. The thought brought a smile to my face. I pulled my plate toward me and began to eat as well. In silence. Ignoring the fact we were both eating together.

“When did you learn how to cook?” If memory served me well, and it usually did, she couldn’t cook, not even boil water.

“I had a lot of spare time. Paolo traveled a lot, I was home most of the time, and boredom led me to learn how to cook.”

“You must have been very bored.”

She chuckled. “I was, I hated cooking, but then it kind of felt therapeutic. It gave me something to think about other than…well, other than whatever was in my head.”

“It’s good.” I had to give in, it was really good. I loved breakfast food, but anything with chocolate and cherries were a given.

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