Page 22 of The Villain
I walk out of the closet and into the bathroom. The door has a lock. I’m grateful for that. It’s beautiful, modern, just as the closet was, but in keeping with the building with the same stone and marble I’d glimpsed in the main church. There’s a large glass-walled shower with old fashioned brass fixtures and a separate tub. Needing to wash his touch off me, I decide to have a shower. I slip the shirt back off and step under the flow of water. As soon as I take the lid off his body wash and sniff it, though, I know it’s in vain. His scent is everywhere.
I don’t shampoo my hair, but scrub my body, trying to ignore the ache in my pussy when my fingers move over it. I’m not going to do it. I’m not going to touch myself in his house, in his shower, with him on my mind. Hell, he’s probably got cameras in here and is watching me now. I scan the corners of the room, paranoid, butdon’t see anything. Still, I hurry and dry off, then put his shirt back on, rolling up the sleeves until my hands are free, and buttoning the top buttons. Since I only see his toothbrush on the edge of the sink, I rinse my mouth with the mouthwash and forego brushing my teeth. I braid my damp hair and walk back into the bedroom half-expecting him to be back, but he’s not. I glance at the door, but decide it’s smart to heed his warning, at least tonight. I don’t want to confront him again, not yet. I’m too tired. I go back to bed, switch out the light and lay down, looking at the huge stained-glass window on the opposite wall, taking in the scene of St. John baptizing Jesus. It's beautiful. And I’m not sure if it’s my imagination, but I smell incense. No, it can’t be. No mass has been held here for decades. And Cassian Trevino is certainly not the church-going type. Hell, he converted this beautiful part of our town’s history into his private home. I can only imagine the things that have taken place here. In this bed, even. I mean, who has leather restraints in his nightstand drawer?
I’m curious to look inside that drawer and see what else he has, but I shake my head and tell myself I shouldn’t want to know. I turn onto my side and reach back to make sure my hair covers the back of my neck, my fingers brushing the marks. They almost feel like normal skin, not raised or anything, at least not the old ones. They heal over time. It’s barely been a week since the last ones, though. It’s a spot chosen with care so no one would see.
But someone did see.
I think about Amal and Daniel. Although we’re notrelated by blood, they’re like brother and sister to me. I’ve known them all my life. Malek worked with my father for as long as I can remember. Even though I don’t trust him, at least I know he’ll keep his own kids safe. He won’t let Cassian get to them.
My mind wanders to my brother. How long will it take Michael to pay Cassian back? What did he do exactly anyway? And what did Cassian say? Not to get my hopes up? What did that mean?
Although I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep, somehow, I feel myself drifting and I don’t fight it. I welcome the oblivion of sleep.
6
CASSIAN
Allegra Moretti is missing a finger. That’s unusual and unusual is an understatement even in our world. I need to dig deeper into her family’s history. And on top of that, some of the marks on her neck are fresh. Only days old given how red they are.
I shouldn’t care. I mean, I don’t care. But I don’t like it. I saw how her brother handled her. Is it him? Is he putting his cigars out on his sister’s neck? Some sort of punishment?
The light over the Aga stove is on in the kitchen. I should eat, but I’m not hungry. I need to burn off energy. I cross the front of the church, sconces that stay on day and night casting a warm glow and guiding my way. On moonless nights it would be pitch black in here without them. A soldier standing near one of the side exits greets me.
“I’m going for a run. The girl stays in my room. No one goes in.”
“Yes sir.”
I walk to what is essentially a mudroom. Connected to it is the laundry room. Modern convenience was considered when I redesigned the place into my home. I don’t want to go back into my bedroom to change clothes, so I rummage through the folded laundry and find a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. I pull those on along with a pair of running shoes and step out into the brisk night. I zip my phone into a pocket of my shorts and start my run. No music. I like to hear sounds of the night. Of the dead. It usually clears my head, but tonight everything feels different.
I can still taste her on my tongue.
I can still see the look on her face after.
I run harder despite the pain in my side because if I don’t, I’m going to need to take care of myself here and now. It’d be inappropriate, considering it’s a fucking graveyard.
The night is cold, but I warm up fast. It takes me almost half an hour to get to the edge of the property where a sheer cliff drops into the angry waters of the Atlantic. Only when I reach it do I stop, sweating now, and listen to the sound of waves crashing. A freezing wind blows. Even in summer, it’s never warm, not here.
Devil’s Peak. It’s where the town got its name.
There’s a secret underground path that leads here from the crypt, rock carved roughly centuries ago. Closed off centuries ago, too, and uncovered during the renovation. When I first saw the derelict church, something about it drew me. I couldn’t figure out whator why. I’m not drawn by any god and besides, the discovery was more sinister than salvation. I understood what it was only after that opening was unsealed.
Wind whistles around me. Ghosts of the dead. The murdered. How many bodies were disposed of here, thrown off this very peak? How many lives ended?
Sweat grows cold on my skin, and I turn back, pick up my run. By the time I’m back, I’m sweating, and my breath is short. The soldier nods his greeting. I pass him and make my way to my office, which was one of the chapels I converted, glad I’d decided to add on the bathroom now because I don’t want to go back into the bedroom while she’s sleeping and I’m not remotely tired. The run seems to have done the opposite of what I hoped. I’m more energized than before.
I strip off my clothes and step into the shower, standing beneath the flow, eyes closed, a picture of Allegra Moretti bound to the bed post, hip pressed to my side while I held her. While I spanked her. I grip my cock. It’s either my hand or I’m going to go back into my bedroom and fuck her, and I can’t do that just yet. I need to make sure certain things are in place. I don’t know if she’s protected, and I can’t risk pregnancy. I can never risk pregnancy.
So, I keep the image of her in my mind and recall the musky scent of her arousal, the soft mound of hair, the sweet taste of her pussy. I jerk myself off, imagining it’s her hand, her mouth, the tight sheath of her pussy and when I come, I press my forehead to the wall, my cock throbbing in my fist, come painting the shower walls.
When it’s over, I shudder, tiring now. All that energyslipping from me. I switch off the water and towel off. From the small closet that contains just a few suits and some casual wear, I pull on a pair of boxers and sweats. I don’t bother with a shirt because maybe I’ll sleep tonight after all.
I consider the couch in my office. Hard, cold leather.
I consider the woman in my bed. Soft, warm flesh.
It’s an easy choice and now that I’ve taken care of myself, it should be fine. No issue, I tell myself. She’ll be safe from me.
I open my bedroom door and, in the dim, purple light of the moon filtering in through the stained glass, I see her. She’s still, and her breathing is soft and even.
