Page 83 of Vow of Silence

He pulls back slowly, thrusting home again hard and punishing. Over and over until my nerves alight, my body singing for release. My muscles tighten, and he rears back, bringing me upright. Benito continues at a firm pace as he removes the belt and tosses it aside onto the bed.

He slows, palms stroking the tender column of my throat. I relax against him, aching for Benito to resume the pace. To bring it home. Give me the fucking release I so desperately need.

His grip slowly tightens as he languidly fucks me, one hand gaining dominance around my neck when he drops the other to search out my touch. I allow Benito to guide my hand to my clit, his fingers puppet mine across the sensitive spot before he grips my throat hard, shifting his hand off mine and to my mouth.

My lover fucks me how I need, the bite of his palm across my lips silencing me as he uses the hand around my throat to pull me toward him on each stroke. I find myself drifting in a blissful place between ecstasy and consciousness as he drives us toward completion, a smile pushing against his touch. I need this. To feel abased. Yet coveted all at once.

The pressure vanishes from my neck, and Benito takes my head in both hands, turning my face towards his to kiss me deeply as he thrusts toward his climax. I devour his groan of pleasure, tasting desire and desperation on my tongue as he shudders against me, matching the quivering of my muscles as I follow him into oblivion.

Not a single word needed to be said.

THIRTY

Benito

The scene before me would be ridiculous if it didn’t represent the sad detachment of my unconventional family. My father reviews what will be my prenup spread to the left of his breakfast plate, my mother sparing glances at Dion and me as we pick our way through the cereal, bread, cooked meats, and eggs laid out before us all. I can’t remember the last time we sat down together to eat the first meal of the day. Not since Alessio started college.

Looking at us now, you’d think the scenario was familiar. Something that occurs regularly with how comfortable we appear in our assigned roles.

Yet, I easily recognize the small tells each of us holds.

My father’s finger flicks back and forth over the dog-eared corner of his page—agitation. My mother slices her fruit with such a steady hand and fluid grace that she’d make an excellent surgeon—concealed rage. My brother’s eyes crinkle at the corner with each bite he takes—resentment.

I circle my pointer finger around the rim of my espresso cup—impatience.

Negative energy crackles through the halls of our house, and yet, the fucker primarily responsible is nowhere to be seen. I wascontent to wait Ignazio out, to give the asshole time enough to eventually fuck up—provide me with the evidence I need. When it was only my pain I avenged, I could rationalize the cost. But seeing Nastasya last night.Shit. Love has a way of taking logic and reason and throwing them out the window. She hurts because ofmyfamily, and so I hurt for her.

I want to take that ache away, put a smile back on her face, and give the girl a reason to forget that loving me started all this.

I pick off a small piece of my breakfast roll and toss it at Dion, smacking him on the nose.

His gaze lifts, a hand frozen mid-air around the handle of his delicate fork. The narrowing of his eyes and stiffness to his jaw spell all he needs to say:not now.

Then when?I shrug. I want to know what the fuck rattles through that oblivious mind of his. Well, perhaps oblivious isn’t the right word. Naive?No. Hopeful. I curl my upper lip as the word echoes in my mind. Disgusting fucking thing that it represents. Hope has done nothing for me but bring broken promises and disappointment daily. Week after week.

Year after fucking year.

Hope was the fucking reason I ended up in this predicament.

I stifle the urge to hurl the plate of bacon before me across the fucking patio. The smell is alluring, enough to wet the senses and have my goddamn mouth watering for a taste. But what taste? I haven’t enjoyed a meal the same way for a fucking decade.

Food is nothing more than a means to an end. A way to survive.

Like everything in my life is.

Glancing down and to the side, I slide my phone free of my pocket and check the screen. Nothing. She hasn’t sent me a single message since I snuck out this morning with a promise to set things right. My heart cried in my arms last night untilexhaustion pulled her into sleep, and all I could do was lie and stare at her peeling ceiling while the facts of the situation rolled around my mind.

Naz paid those fuckers to hunt her down.

Arseni was there that night, meeting with my uncle before I lost my tongue.

The bastards were up to something back then, and they’re up to something now. I can’t fucking figure out what. And it’s that realization that makes my fucking gut tight with repressed rage.

Fuck.My jaw aches under pressure as I slide the redundant phone away.

Even now, years after the initial fallout, Ignazio fucks things up between Stas and I. And I bet the fucking asshole goes to sleep with a smile on his weathered face knowing so, too.

I don’t know what I expected by visiting Nastasya last night. To make her feel better? Not particularly—I won’t be able to do that until I lay this mess to rest. Maybe acknowledgment would be more accurate. An understanding from her. A sign that she gets this fucking need burning in my chest every day. This insipid desire to shackle her to me to ensure I never have to spend another moment feeling isolated while surrounded by so much fucking insipid devotion.

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