Page 32 of Her Cruel Bodyguard

“Are you good, Eva?” One of them asks and I nod, not caring to spare a look to know which one of them it is.

The chandelier in the sitting area emits a low light, and I can hear the distant chatteringof housekeepers. My gaze quickly moves to Salvatore's old bedroom, which shares a door with this room.

I tighten my grip on my camera as I consider how quickly things have changed. Though he was never the most affectionate brother, there were times when he defended me. He was always willing to pick a fight and, if possible, beat someone to a pulp, no matter who they were, to do so.

I had concluded he was just an angry kid who needed to let some anger off. But he was also my brother in more ways than I had cared to appreciate. We had our differences, and they were many. We usually kept away from each other, but I wish he would come through that door again, all scraggy, glaring at me and cursing under his breath at everything and everyone.

I also wish I could go back to the days when I could pretend I did not want Fabio, the days when it was okay to co-exist with him in the same space without feeling like someone was running a laser beam over my skin.

I take the stairs two at a time as I feel Fabio following me.

I can’t hear his footsteps, but I know he is coming after me. It’s both thrilling and annoying. It’s infuriating that he holds so much power over my mood. When he looks at me in his enchanting way, the world, my doubts, and my fears all disappear under the heat of his gaze.

And when he looks away, when he strikes with his rejection, they come flooding back, sending me flying in the air, trying to grasp for balance.

I open my door and go into the uproar of colors that is my bedroom. I am determined to shut him out, but he places his foot to wedge it and pushes gently, slipping into my space. Invading my privacy.

“Get out of my room, or I will scream,” I point at the door, and he closes it instead.

His green eyes skim the walls of my bedroom, the pictures on each wall, and then drop on a picture of him. One I took some years ago when I had started photography. It’s a little blurry but it captured the magic of the moment.

I was in motion. I didn’t want him to know I was trying to take pictures of him. His hair was longer and flaring from the ruffling of the wind as he stood by the beach shore my father had taken Salvatore and me to for a summer getaway. He had a T-shirt on that day, which was rare. I needed to capture the peace in his eyes as he stared at the ocean.

It was what had inspired my style of photography.

“You hit me,” he struts to the picture of himself, stopping in front of it. Not too close, but close enough, like he has viewed my art countless times. Like he knows how to look at a work of art.

Now that I think about it, he has always been like that with me. He never makes the mistake of trying to touch. Is that what I am to him? Something he cannot touch but only watch from a distance?

“You deserved it.” He did and I will unleash my fury again if he so much as starts another tirade about me having to choose another person over him.

“I did,” he turns slowly to face me, and I nod, throwing my camera on the bed, “I owe you a new camera, too,” he points with his chin at it, and I shrug. He can do whatever he wants, “Eva…”

“I have had enough for one day,” I lift both hands in the air and then drop them to my hips. “You know what?” I edge towards him. “Whatever. I will find someone else, and I will free you and maybe one day, when it is too late, you may decide if you can be redeemed.” I stop in front of him, deadly tired. “I have heard all you had to say, now leave my room,” I point at the door.

He nods and takes a step toward my door, winding me into another round of fury. I can’t say what it is about him that brings out that part of me.

“Yeah, do that. Leave,” I go after him and my words bounce back to me as he halts and spins to face me. “Leave,” it’s a breath because of how the ability to speak eludes me under his unearthing gaze.

He can see through my stunts and knows I want nothing more than for him to stay.

I raise my hands, intent on punching him, but I grasp his shirt instead. “Leave,” my voice creaks. “Go away,” I press myself against him, and he grunts deeply. I feel its vibration against my body.

I jerk him, but he is unmovable. I throw a weak punch against the hard build of his chest and let my hand press flat against it, dragging it in the direction of his heart. I can feel it beating fast.

I tip, leaning my forehead against the side of his mouth. I am tired. I want to scream at him, scratch him, scratch myself, yell at the world. I want to do so many things and anything that will ease these twisting in my stomach.

He breathes, syncing the tempo with my breath, which grows frantic by the second. He covers my hand on his chest with his, pressing it hard like he wants to rip his heart out and serve it to me.

“I will do it, I will carve it out for you, Eva,” he curses under his breath, warm flushes of heat brushing my temple.

I tilt my head, and his mouth covers mine. His tongue invades me, consuming me the same way he consumes my mind.

He nibs on my lower lip, and I suck in a sharp, stomach-flipping breath of air.

I slip my fingers into his hair as he lifts me off the floor and lowers me gently on the bed, slowing the kiss to a stop.

“Eva,” I love the way he says my name. Like he gave it to me, like only he truly understands the meaning of it. “I am losing it here,” he puffs on my lips, and the heat wave settles in the base of my stomach, then slips a little lower to my core.

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