Page 16 of Psychotic Faith
And Luca. My guardian. Standing now at the edge of the room, those pale eyes tracking my every movement. He's not even pretending to socialize, just watching me.
"He's isolating me," I realize suddenly. Not just from threats, but from everyone. From my carefully built connections, from my targets, from any life that doesn't include him.
The fury tastes like bile. He's protecting me by destroying my revenge. My twelve-year plan, everything I've worked for, every connection I've cultivated, every approach I've practiced. Destroyed in a single evening by his possessive protection.
I need air. Need space. Need to think without those pale eyes dissecting my every breath. I set down my untouched champagne and head for the hallway exit, my heels clicking against marble with sharp finality.
The hallway stretches before me, empty and echoing. Oil paintings of old Chicago line the walls, watching my retreat withjudging eyes. The sounds of the party fade behind me, replaced by the thunder of my own heartbeat.
But I'm not alone. I don't need to look back to know he's following. His footsteps are patient, measured, like he has all the time in the world. Like he knows exactly where this ends. Each footstep behind me sends heat pooling between my legs. I hate him for ruining my plans. Hate myself more for wanting him to catch me, to press me against these judging portraits and show me exactly what kind of monster I've been letting guard me.
The hallway seems to stretch forever. My heels echo too loud, announcing my flight to anyone listening. Behind me, his steps stay steady. Not rushing. Not chasing. Just following with that terrible patience, like a wolf that knows the deer will tire eventually.
I turn a corner, finding another empty corridor. More paintings, more judging eyes. A door at the far end promises escape, but escape to what? He knows where I live. Knows where I work. Has been in my bedroom while I slept.
My hand finds my cross necklace, the metal warm from my skin. What would Father Murphy say about this? About letting a killer protect me? About the heat that pools low in my belly when I think about those pale eyes?
His footsteps never falter, never speed up. Just that steady rhythm that says he'll follow me to the end of the earth if necessary. Patient. Relentless. Inevitable as gravity. The scent of him reaches me now, something dark and expensive, like aged leather and smoke from expensive cigars. The scent makes my mouth water even as my mind screams run.
The door at the hallway's end looms closer. My hand reaches for it, fingers trembling with adrenaline. The cold metal of the handle meets my palm, solid and real in a night that feels like fever dream.
I turn it.
His hand covers mine on the handle, trapping it there. Not pushing, not pulling. Just holding me in this moment between escape and surrender. The heat of his body radiates against my back, close enough that I can feel his breath disturb the hair at my neck. Close enough that his chest nearly touches my spine with each inhale.
"Half a lifetime you've been hunting him," he says against my ear, his voice low and rough like expensive whiskey over broken glass. Each word sends shivers down my spine, makes my nipples peak harder against the silk of my dress. "One night, and I've made him run. Tell me, little faith. Does that make you want to thank me? Or punish me?"
8 - Luca
“Tell me, little faith. Does that make you want to thank me? Or punish me?”
Each word sends shivers down her spine—I can feel them through my chest pressed nearly against her back.
She tries to turn the handle under our joined hands, but I hold it firm, trapping her between the door and my body. Not quite touching except for our hands, but close enough that she can feel the heat radiating from me.
"Let go." Her voice wavers between command and plea.
"No." Simple. Final. The way I say it makes her breath hitch, diaphragm spasming against her ribs. "You ran from me. Nobody runs from me, Faith."
"You're Luca Rosetti." She says it like an accusation, like learning my name changes what's between us. "My father warned me about you. Said you're the worst of them."
"Your father's right." I lean closer, my lips nearly touching the shell of her ear. "I am the worst. The one who doesn't sleep anymore because sleep is time I could spend watching you. The one who's killed men for looking at you wrong. The one who knows you touch yourself at 3 a.m. after your nightmares, trying to chase away the guilt with your fingers."
She goes rigid against the door. "You sick—"
I spin her around, pressing her back against the door with my body. Not rough, but inevitable. Like gravity. Her hands come up to push against my chest, but the moment her palmsmake contact with the expensive fabric of my suit, she stops. Her fingers curl slightly, not quite grabbing, not quite pushing away.
"Sick?" I repeat, studying the way her pupils dilate in the hallway's low light. Forty percent dilation despite adequate illumination. Arousal response. "Is that what you tell yourself when you read my photographs? When you kiss them like prayers?"
"I didn't know they were from you. From a Rosetti."
"Would it have mattered?" I cage her with my arms against the door, watching her pulse hammer in her throat. One hundred thirty beats per minute. "Would you have stopped looking for me in shadows? Stopped leaving messages in your window? Stopped wearing that silk nightgown when you know I'm watching?"
Her breath catches. "The nightgown was a mistake."
"The nightgown was an invitation." I lean closer, until my lips almost brush hers. So close I can taste her exhale, sweet from champagne she barely touched. "Your body knows who it belongs to even if your mind pretends otherwise."
"You've been watching me." Not a question. An accusation wrapped in hazel eyes that burn with something between fury and fascination.
