Page 70 of Hearts Of Darkness

Kicking off my shoes, I curl up on top of the white bedsheets, and bury my face in the pillowcase. There are no traces of his scent here—no sharp, poignant reminders. But as I shift position, I feel the lethal solidity of his flick knife pressing against the side of my ribcage.

I slide my hand into my bra to remove it, turning the knife over in my fingers before closing my fist around it. I miss him so much it hurts, but if I ever saw him again, I’d run far, far, away. I hate him with every broken part of me. I crave him with all the fever he’s unleashed in me.

Another shudder rumbles through the bunker.

“Where are you, Dante?” I whisper, and I swear I hear him answering me from the shadows.

“I’m here with you, my angel… Always.”

23

EVE

Ihave no idea how long I sleep for. When I wake, the clock face has been turned away, but I get the impression of minutes, not hours, from the scant clues around me. The strip lights are still glaring down from the ceiling, the closet door is still ajar—exactly how I left it—and the photograph of the little girl is still laying on the nightstand, as if I’d hoped that my dreams would somehow knit together the missing pieces for me. His knife is still tightly clasped in my fist.

I go to stretch and then freeze. There’s a strange prickling sensation on the back of my arms. It sets in flux a chain reaction that spreads unease throughout my body. My stomach muscles clench, my breath quickens, and my heart starts to thud to a painful beat.

I’m not alone.

His presence hits me immediately. It’s likeour bodies are connected on some intrinsic level. I can sense his anger, his frustration, his turmoil…

With a soft cry, I wrench myself up into a seated position. He’s crouched down against the far wall, his dark eyes fixed on me. The black fatigues he’s wearing are stained and torn. The skin on his face is dirty and bruised, and there’s an ugly red weal lacerating one side of his forehead. Scratches and cuts cover most of his forearms. There’s a gun resting lightly in his lap.

“Hello, Eve,” he says grimly.

I’m too shocked to speak, but he waits patiently, cat-like, as if he has all the time in the world. His eyes are flickering over my face constantly.

“The compound,” I gasp out. “Your men…”

“Gone.”

The word is cold and brutal in its finality. He seems curiously unmoved by it, though. It’s like his focus has shifted to something far greater than the ruin of his empire.

“Is your brother…”

“Not yet. But he soon will be.”

He seems so calm, but I know his storm is always raging just below the surface. I glance at the gun in his lap. “What happened to you?”

He cocks his handsome, battered head to one side. “Do you really want to know that, my angel, or are you just stalling for time? Why don’t you ask the one question that you’re dying to. We both know the rest is bullshit.”

He’s right.I need to know the truth.

My fingers tighten around the knife. I fell asleep clutching it as if I was seeking out his protection, even when I wasunconscious. I take a deep, unsteady breath.

“Did you murder my brother?”

There’s no flicker in his face to betray his shock at my asking this. There’s no downward turn of his mouth to suggest a hint of remorse, just more of that cold indifference.

“Yes.”

I let out a soft cry. My face crumples beneath an avalanche of grief. I drop the knife, pull my knees up to my chest and try to stem the torrent of tears with my fingers.

“You bastard,” I whisper. “How could you keep me prisoner knowing what you did. Haven’t my family suffered enough?”

He makes no move to contradict or comfort. He just sits there.

Watching.

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