Page 27 of Twisted Promise

The woman double-checked the camera to see if it was properly turned off before excusing herself from the room.

Alessio tapped his fingers on the armrest, trapped in the rewinds of their interview, relishing the warmth created by the heat his seething blood fed through the veins.

He reached over to her hand after she accidentally fell asleep. Her fingers were soft and small, a stark difference from his as they intertwined perfectly together.

A twitch caused her fingers to tighten around his, earning the faintest noise in his throat as he pressed the palm of his other hand to his eyes. His heart raged on as he prayed for a moment of peace; just a mere second was good enough, but emotions were irrational when they wanted to be.

Feelings, on the other hand, were kinder to him. It grounded him, constantly reminding him that they had something in the past and more in the future.

Signed away freedom and chained with vowed rings.

The candle dimmed, casting an ethereal golden halo on her slumped body. His shadow stretched over her, engulfing her figure as the flickering light on his side grew brighter, feeding the triumph through his skin.

For a moment, he allowed himself to indulge in the thought of her sinking in the depths of sins with him, to stain the purity of her heart with his hands, to find the last shred of apprehension and crush it herself.

“What are you doing?” Anya’s voice cut through his thoughts, alert and frightened, as she wrangled her hand free.

Her efforts were futile; he merely held on tighter. He didn’t care if his bones ground against hers, and a twisted part of him hoped she’d feel some of the pain she caused by leaving him—leaving their love in the wind, drifting somewhere he couldn’t reach and couldn’t find its way back to her.

“You’re not—” She paused and chewed on the thought. “We’re not…”

“Stop running away,” he snapped, anger dripping from his tongue like venom.

Good, she should feel scared.

He realized this was the precise feeling he had when they met years ago—to crush her determination and mold her obedience. He had nearly forgotten how exhilarating it felt when it first happened, and something caught in his throat appreciatively.

His heart became a disjointed rhythm, sloppily singing a tune of mirthful laughter in his ears. He forgave himself for not listening sooner.

“We were good,” he accused angrily, the bruising grip striking another tremor in her fingers as they grew colder. “You had no reason to leave,to abandon me.”

She swallowed shakily, redness lined her eyes pathetically adorable, and her lips pursed tightly. Anya’s hand went limp in his, a compliant sign, and delight settled at the base of his throat.

“I’m not ready,” she muttered, her tongue darting nervously to wet her lips. “To talk about us.”

“Not ready?” he taunted, his voice low and scornful. “Or, not to me.”

Silence fell, and so did the rushed footsteps from behind the door.

He let go just before the door swung open. Her hand fell to the armrest, and in the dim light, the faint imprint of his grip lingered on her delicate skin.

A surge of pride swelled within him.

“Hello,” the same interviewer came back and chirped ruefully, unaware of the tension hanging in the air.

“Would you like something to drink and a snack before we continue?”

Anya nodded after his verbal refusal. The woman strolled to the side table where the snacks and drinks were organized, then came back with what Anya wanted.

It was a bottle of soda, the sweetest and flattest kind. When Anya used to be stressed for exams and projects, she used sugar to bump up her focus and ease her overwhelmed mind.

If he was still the young man from years ago, he’d feel bad. He didn’t, as of now, but maybe he would in a little bit. Alessio was too heated, and he needed time to decompress.

The interview resumed, and the chat flooded with new comments begging for more insider information. They made remarks about Anya’s sudden fatigue and the apparent shift away from him as much as she could on the small sofa that was purposely put close to his.

Perhaps he was a little too impatient.

Without glancing at the camera, he leaned closer to her and whispered, his voice so soft it barely registered.

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