Page 5 of The Villain
“I said go!” Michael grabs my arm once more and is about to shove me toward the door when Cassian’s hand closes over his wrist.
I look at the two of them, not sure how Cassian got to us without my noticing. I take in the expression on his face, his eyes more hard steel than beautiful blue now, nothing about him casual anymore.
He’s not playing, but he never was. What I see clear as day is his fury, his utter rage.
Michael’s grip on me tightens momentarily then it’s gone and Cassian steps between me and my brother, shielding me from Michael’s view.
“Aren’t you the big man raising a hand to your sister? What is she, half your size?” Cassian asks.
Michael’s face contorts with pain, and I realize what Cassian is doing.
“Stop!” I call out, because he’s bending Michael’swrist backward. When I grip Cassian’s forearm, a soldier’s pulls me away. “Stop! You’re going to break his wrist!”
I watch, stunned at this violence, although I shouldn’t be. All my life I’ve lived with violence. As much as my father tried to shield me from it, ultimately, I wasn’t safe. I’ve always known what we are, and I know first-hand what we and our enemies are capable of. I am confronted with the evidence of it every time I look at my hand.
My brother is driven to his knees and a moment later, I hear the strange, sickening snap of bone followed by Michael’s wail of pain.
When Cassian drops Michael’s wrist, I know it’s broken. Michael cradles it with his other hand. Cassian leans his face close to my brother’s. “Daddy teach you that?” he asks darkly, voice low and controlled.
Cassian Trevino shifts his gaze to me. When he sees the soldier’s grip on my arms, all it takes is a narrowing of his eyes for the man to release me. I rush toward Michael, but Cassian extends his arm and blocks my path without touching me. He’s all quiet authority.
“Leave him,” he says, cobalt eyes locking with mine.
“He’s hurt!”
“No worse than he deserves.”
I try to get past him, but he wraps his arm around my middle, big hand closing around my waist. It’s warm, his grip strong but not painful. He’s so close I smell his aftershave, and I know it’s a scent I will always associate with this strange, new sensation deep in my belly.
His eyes search my face before moving to the spot Michael grabbed me.
I close my hand over it and step backward, out of reach, the heat of his touch burning. I look away from him to my brother, to the men gathered, soldiers watching the one who just broke my brother’s wrist, waiting for instruction. This man who brought my brother to his knees. I see how big he is, bigger than Michael. Commanding. And more powerful in every way.
I clear my throat. “My father did not teach him that,” I say quietly. It’s all I can say.
Cassian watches me. He’s taking in every emotion that crosses my face.
“No?” he asks. I shake my head, feeling defensive of my father. “Then you didn’t know Alaric Moretti very well. Sit.” He points to the chair closest to me and turns to one of his men. “Enzo, get Lombardi in here, will you?”
Enzo nods and leaves to do as he’s told.
Cassian turns back to me. “I told you to sit, Moth.”
I swallow, slide into the chair because I’m not sure my legs won’t buckle under his gaze. My heart’s frantic pounding slows to a thudding, the only other sound that of my brother’s whimpers.
Cassian crosses the room to pick up his whiskey and swallows the contents of the glass. The casual elegance of earlier is gone. He’s furious and he’s barely able to cloak his rage. He broke Michael’s wrist to punish him for hurting me, but he’s no knight in shining armor. Cassian Trevino is a brutal man and I know what brutal men are capable of.
Michael’s face is flushed and sweat dotshis hairline. When the door opens, I realize the music in the outer room has stopped. It’s silent. Too silent for the number of people out there unless Cassian has cleared the house. I guess he wouldn’t want witnesses.
Panic has me gripping the armrests. Amal and Daniel are upstairs, asleep in their beds. Malek moved into the house with his children after dad died claiming it was at Michael’s request. What will they wake to in the morning? A bloodbath? Will they wake at all?
Cassian walks to the wall of photos again.
“Where are Lombardi’s children?” he asks as if having read my mind. “They live here now, I believe?”
When neither of us answers, he looks over his shoulder at me, eyebrows raised.
“They’re not part of this,” I say, knowing how far this can go.
