Page 92 of Where Dark Hearts Devour
Trilby
I hold his stare for longer than I should, feeling an irrational anger bubbling up in my chest. Sera is right. Why has he been the one who’s followed me around, protected me from danger, laid down rules, and taken me to breakfast? Why him and not Savero?
I shake my head as his eyes catch on the crystal comb I’m wearing in my hair.
It’s all his fault. Because of Cristiano Di Santo, I feel completely at sea. I’m not in control anymore.
Since he stalked into my life, I haven’t been able to think straight. Because of his insistence on “keeping an eye on me,” I’ve formed an attachment to him. Part of me depends on him, and he knows it. And now he’s going to tear that away, because sticking around is uncomfortable forhim.
The low chatter around the table slowly grinds to a halt, and I realize too late that everyone is staring at us staring at eachother. I glance left to Savero, and a shiver of fright freezes my spine. His head is turned, and his eyes flick between me and his brother. His brother who’s stillglaringat me as if I just murdered his firstborn.
My head feels too light, and it isn’t from the alcohol. If Savero suspects there’s anything between Cristiano and me—anything that goes beyond a brotherly sense of duty—God knows what he’ll do. I didn’t miss the blood on his hands when he arrived which he calmly washed off in the ornamental fountain near the head of the table. And I will never forget the way he sliced open a human torso as emotionless as if it were prosciutto.
I’ve never had to worry about it much before now, because he hasn’t been around to see the way his brother looks at me, or the way I dissolve into a hot mess whenever Cristiano’s near.
My heart is racing. Even if he doesn’t add me to his kill list, I can’t afford for this marriage to not go ahead. I need Savero, because my father needs Savero. If we don’t have him on our side, if we don’t keep this amicable, we’ll lose the port and everything my father has worked for.
I suddenly need air, and I’m not going to get it sitting at this table under the oppressive eyeballing of the Di Santo mob.
“I’ll be right back,” I whisper to Sera. She’s staring at me, but her mind is elsewhere. She’s unaware my world has tilted on its axis and is hovering precariously on the edge of collapse.
I place my napkin on the table and stand. Then, without a backward glance, I walk back inside the house.
I don’t know where I’m going—I just need to get away. I need to get my thoughts together. What if Savero questions me about my relationship with his brother? How can I explain without revealing too much or blushing?
I walk through the house from the back to the entrance hall. The grand driveway is illuminated white by the sun, but I hardlyregister it. I step outside the bulletproof doors and walk across the lawn to the pavilion. The stone seat is cool under the shade of the canopy, and I welcome the fresh temperature against my burning skin.
I lower my body and sink my head into my hands. Just a few minutes, then I’ll head back. Hopefully, the atmosphere will have thawed some, and Cristiano will have found something else to glare at.
“You defied me.”
I look up, almost jumping out of my skin. A small sense of relief seeps through me at the sight of Cristiano, not Savero. But the sharpness in his tone feels bitter and distant.
“What are you doing out here?” I whisper. Low-level panic makes me turn left and right to check no one is watching.
“Answer me, Castellano.”
I grip the seat on either side of my legs. “Oh, we’re back to using my last name, are we?”
I shouldn’t complain. We should be doing everything we can to reverse what happened, and that includes him not calling me by my given name as if it’s his to keep.
He steps forward, his gaze brimming with warning.
“You didn’t ask me a question,” I point out.
“Don’t mess with me. I told you expressly not to drink alcohol again. You can’t handle it—it makes you behave irresponsibly.”
“What does it matter anyway?” My heart thunders at the sight of him; at the debilitating grief I feel at the thought of him leaving. I stand with my fists balled at my sides. “You won’t be around to watch me make a fool of myself,Di Santo.”
His teeth mash together, and a growl leaves his throat. He grips the nape of my neck hard and pulls me toward him until our breaths brush each other. “Call me by my name,” he whispers hoarsely.
I can’t help it. “Cristiano,” I gasp. “Call me bymine.”
His gaze drops to my lips, and a full-body shiver coasts from my head to my toes. Then his eyes flick upward, giving me a glimpse of the darkness behind them. “Trilby.” His voice breaks. “God help me,” he groans, then he puts his hand to the back of my head and pulls me onto his lips.
Relief floods through my bones and softens my muscles. I melt into him.
His mouth forces mine open, and he licks at my tongue with a wild hunger. When I attach myself to him, his hands release my neck and cover my face. Fingers push through my hair and trace an impatient line from my nape to my sit bone. I wriggle restlessly under his touch, and he breathes desperate-sounding Italian curses into my mouth.
