Page 1 of Bastard
Prologue
Rome
Four Years AfterHim
New Year’s resolutions should be simple. Lose weight. Save money. Connect with your inner muse.
Mine is weighty. Born from sorrow and anchored in hurt. A harsh reminder of how love and hate aren’t opposite ends of a spectrum—love and hate are thesame thing.
It doesn’t help that it’s the same resolution I’ve made the past two years. With one amendment—replacehim.
Forgethimand replacehim.
Four flutes of Italian prosecco and a night spent dancing with a gorgeous stranger, and my inner muse is telling me I might accomplish my goal before the New Year’s countdown begins.
Yes,he’lldo.
Midnight-black hair. Naughty, teasing smile. Tall frame and muscular body nicely filling out the expensive suit he wears. He dances like he’s fucking, hips flexing and cock thrusting up against my backside. A tantalizing preview of what’s coming if I let it.
Sex.
Delicious, mindless, anonymous sex.
I lean back into the stranger, mind made up. Not missing a beat, he grinds up against my ass.
Hands on my hips, he spins me around then pulls me closer, eyes flashing. Green eyes that steal my breath away yet make me want to both cry and shoot someone. Green eyes that both attract and repel me.
I break away with a frustrated curse.
“Luciana? Are you okay?” my best friend, Madelyn, calls out from somewhere nearby on the crowded dance floor.
If I had to choose one person I can always count on, it’s Madelyn. She’s the sweetest, kindest, most grounded person I know. Who, unlike me, has the keen ability to forgive even the mildest of grievances.
Adding Rome to our bucket list was my idea. Because somewhere, deep within my twisted psyche, I thought Italy would bring me closer tohim. But that was before that horrible night in Cabo, Mexico. Before an innocent man was killed, my friend targeted, and I was left bearing the scars of a bitter betrayal.
We’re survivors, Madelyn and I. Victims of anger, bitterness, sorrow, and strife, yet life still marches on, right? Despite it all, I insisted we ring in the new year together in this city.
I should have backed out. Faked a headache or, better yet, a stomachache.
Sí. It’s time I move on.
My eyes skim over the dance floor until I find Madelyn, who’s watching me closely. Unlikely friends, we are, but dear friends, nevertheless. “I need to use the restroom,” I shout over the noise of the crowd.
She looks to the man beside me. “God bless Rome,” she hollers back with an approving wink. Message understood.
With a slight nod, I turn and offer my dance partner a quick “follow me” curl of my finger.
My breasts sway within the deep V-cut of my black dress as I move across the floor, the clingy material riding up my thighs. Heads turn, they always do.
I don’t feel sexy. Or flattered.
I feel determined.
Hope he’s game for an angry fuck.
I don’t glance back to see if he’s following. Not when I break free of the dance floor. Not when I’m striding down the green-carpeted hallway which leads me to a smaller, less busy bathroom I discovered earlier, one that has a door that locks from the inside. Not when I slow my pace, making sure to pause before disappearing inside.
I switch on the light and cross the white marble floor to a tall pedestal sink. Its shiny, gold faucet matches the ornate mirror above it. Behind me are two enormous wooden doors, also decorated with gilded handles. To my left and against the far wall is an expensive-looking leather bench.
