Page 63 of Devil's Tulip

I suppose Gracie already mentioned something to her, hence the pure frustration vibrating off her.

I let her fume. Let her pace. Let her work herself up.

But soon, just watching her isn’t enough. I need to smell her sweet scent, hear her tinkling voice, see the fire in her golden eyes.

With a single tap on my computer, the screens all go dark, and I rise from my chair. Then, adjusting my jacket, I make my way to her.

The moment I open my bedroom door, she whirls towards me, eyes blazing. “What the hell, Michael? Why am I here?”

Her fury rolls off her in waves, but as I take in her bruised face up close, my excitement dims, and any joy I’d felt seconds before snuffs out completely.

And just like that, my own rage reignites like a goddamn wildfire.

I should have made that trash suffer for longer.

Jaw tight, I pull out my phone and shoot a text to Morgan, our consultant doctor, to get his ass here. I should have called him as soon as we got home. Should have made sure she was taken care of first. But I let my anger take the reins. Dealing with Dario took priority.

Morgan replies immediately.

On my way. Give me five.

I drop my phone back into my pocket and approach her slowly, eyes cataloging every dark mark marring her face. My pretty girl. Beaten, broken. Because of me. I lift a hand towards her hesitantly, but she jerks back.

The look she gives me—disgust curling her lips, pure loathing in her eyes—twists something deep inside me. “Don’t even dare.”

My hand falls, fisting at my side. “Gianna, I–” The words clog in my throat. I’ve never apologized in my life. I don’t know how to start.

Her arms cross over her chest. “Why the hell am I in your house, Michael? Why am I in what I know isyourbedroom?”

Her voice is ice. I’ve lost her trust, her good will towards me. And I know I deserve it. I deserve everything she throws at me.

But that doesn’t mean I’m just going to take it.

I narrow my eyes on her. “You want to know why you’re here? You’re here because we’re getting married tomorrow.”

She stares at me with so much vitriol that if I were a lesser man, I’d probably take a couple of steps back. But I’m not, so I smirk and take two steps forward instead.

Her arms drop from her chest, and then, to my complete confusion, she throws her head back and laughs. The sound is sharp, maniacal, like something inside her just snapped.

I frown at her in worry. Is she having a meltdown?

“Oh my God,” she gasps out when she finally stops. “I’ve had it up to here–” she raises a hand, “–with men thinking they can tell me what to do. First Aldo telling me I’m getting married to Carlotoday, and now you’re saying we’re getting marriedtomorrow?”

Another round of laughter bursts from her, but this time, tears start slipping down her cheeks. Halfway through, her body sags, and she crumples to the floor with a pained groan.

My heart swells painfully as I watch her. For the first time in years, I have no fucking clue what to do. Should I try to comfort her? How do I do that? I take a hesitant step forward, reaching?—

“Don’t–” Her voice is raw, shaking. She lifts a trembling hand. “Don’t even think about it, Michael.”

Before I can say anything, there’s a sharp knock on the door. “Morgan is here, Michael,” Gracie calls from the door.

I glance down at Gianna. “That’s my doctor. He’s going to check on your bruises. Make sure you’re okay.”

“I’mnotokay, Michael. I’m not,” she murmurs, shaking her head.

Her words knock something loose in my chest.

“Tell him to hold on for a minute,” I call back, then go on my haunches in front of her.

---