Page 56 of Where Dark Hearts Devour
I follow at what I think is a safe distance, my head spinning with thinly veiled warnings and the burn that comes from realizing the chemistry I thought was all in my head is actually real, and he feels it too.
In the heat of this moment I don’t know what’s worse: wanting this man in some raw, carnal way, believing he’s blissfully ignorant of it; or knowing the feeling is mutual but that an entire underworld stands in the way of it ever being more than an inconsequential feeling.
“You will stay here tonight,” he says without looking around. “I don’t know when Savero will be finished.”
I know what that means. Savero will be pursuing every single person who might be somehow connected to the man who shot his driver at point-blank range, and that’s a task impossible to put a timeframe on. But Cristiano’s warning still echoes in my ears.
“Maybe it would be better if I went home.”
He turns and looks at me, almost weary. “Even your father, someone who’s lived a life on the edges of this world, hasn’t seen the kind of threat we Di Santos have been under for as longas we’ve been alive. A lot of people want us dead and will keep trying to kill us—and those closest to us—until they get what they want. You’re at risk now, Castellano, and your father can’t protect you anymore.”
He lets the weight of his words settle on my shoulders, then he jerks his head toward the back of the room. “You are exhausted, and I have a spare room you can sleep in.”
I am exhausted. I’ve seen enough in one day to last me a lifetime.
“Is it okay if I use the bathroom?”
His jaw tics from side to side. “There’s one in the spare bedroom, but if you want to take a shower, the best one is in the master. I’ll show you.”
He strokes his gaze down my neck and lingers on my collarbone one last time, then he walks past me.
I take in his gait as I follow. It’s smooth, assured, and purposeful—everything I wish I were. He opens a set of doors and takes out two unfathomably fluffy towels. When he catches my widened eyes, he shrugs.
“I have a housekeeper when I’m in town.”
Two seconds later, we’re standing in a tastefully decorated bathroom. There’s an enormous waterfall shower enclosed in polished glass panels, and enough shampoos and lotions to last a year. I can’t stop my jealous thoughts from veering to the question of whether other women have been here.
“Have you had company?” I ask before I can stop myself.
I feel him smile beside me.
“No.” He turns to leave but stops in the doorway. “My housekeeper is a wishful thinker.” His gaze caresses my face, sending me into a hazy spin.
I want to know what he’s thinking. We came close tokissingback there, and now I’m staying in his apartment. And it’s not weird. I feel like I’m meant to be here.
His voice softens like a damn pillow. “Just come back out when you’re done. Take your time.”
I stare at the door he just left wide-open and wonder how he can be so mindful of my honor yet so selective about it.
My stomach is roiling after the past few hours. Being in the church brought back memories I never want to relive again in any lifetime. Witnessing cold-blooded murder just inches from my person made me yearn for my family, when in reality, they’re slipping from my fingers. And having Cristiano’s lips so close to my own has made me feel, for the first time since my mother died, like a living, breathing,achinghuman being. Someone who wants to feeleverythingagain, without the protective layers of grief and loss.
I leave the door exactly where it is and slowly peel off my clothes. I let them scatter like breadcrumbs along the floor until I reach the shower, then I step inside and let the water pummel me.
Steam floods the room, and I drench myself in it. I need to cleanse myself of all the dirt and grime tunnelling under my nails and into my dreams.
I stand there for about ten minutes relishing the sizzle of hot water on cool skin, until I can barely see further than my nose. I wipe a hand across the glass separating me from the rest of the bathroom. As my eyes readjust to the light, I see movement beyond the door.
My breath stutters. Standing in the center of the living room, feet braced on the wooden floor, andstaringat me like he wants to devour me limb from limb, is Cristiano.
My pulse thuds through my temple like my own personal bass drum. Every throb punctuates another second in which neither of us move.
He’s looking at me.
Reallylookingat me, and it makes me feel even more naked than I am.
My legs tremble as I force myself to hold his gaze.
Cristiano slowly rolls his head, loosening the tension in his neck. He doesn’t break eye contact. As more seconds pass, the shock and embarrassment I feel give way to defiance; to challenge. He wanted this to happen. This is why he left the door open. Hewantedto see me. He wanted to see more of what he can’t have.
