Page 63 of Ache for You (Slow Burn 3)
NINETEEN
KIMBER
In my room, I carefully remove the Dior dress and hang it up in the closet, brushing the dust off the back. I change into jeans and a T-shirt and slip on my leather jacket, then head back out.
Arrested by a strange sound, I stop in the hallway and cock my ear.
What’s that?
It’s a soft noise. Intermittent. It’s only after a few moments of listening to it that I realize the sound is muffled crying.
I stare at the door at the end of the hall, shocked to my core.
The marchesa’s room is behind that door. The marchesa is crying.
I put a hand over my throbbing heart and shake my head, pressing my lips together so I don’t sob. I can’t take anything else today. I don’t think I’ll survive one more surprise. My poor heart will burst into a million tiny bloody pieces, and I’ll drop dead where I stand.
Might be a blessing, now that I think of it.
My eyes stinging, I run through the house, throw open the front door, and immediately come to a skidding stop.
Across the driveway, Matteo leans against a black Maserati. His arms are folded over his chest. He’s staring at me from under lowered brows.
The passenger door is open.
Screw it.
I stride angrily across the distance, throw myself into the passenger seat, and slam the door shut. I sit slumped down with my arms crossed over my chest, not bothering to fasten the seat belt, breathing so hard it sounds as if I’ve been running.
Gravel crunches, then Matteo opens the driver’s door and gets in. Without a word, he leans over me and fastens my seat belt. Then he starts the car, closes his door, puts the car into gear, and pulls away.
We drive. I have no idea where. We simply drive in silence as the landscape slips by in a colorful blur, and I try so hard not to cry I dig bloody little crescents into my palms with my fingernails.
The whole time, Matteo’s knuckles are white around the steering wheel.
To the window and the passing view, I say faintly, “I always wanted to be married. When I was a little girl, I dreamed of how it would be. The flowers. The music. My wedding gown. I had this fantasy built up in my head of this perfect, beautiful day . . . and the perfect, beautiful man I’d marry. He’d be so in love with me, he’d die just for a kiss . . .”
Like my father was with my mother. That’s all I ever wanted—a man to love me so much he couldn’t see anything else. Instead it was me who couldn’t see. I’d like to kick my own ass for being so blind.
As the first of the tears crest my lower lids, I suck in a hitching breath. I whisper, “I’m so ashamed.”
“Don’t be stupid,” comes the hard response. “You have nothing to be ashamed of.”
I close my eyes, letting the tears flow because I know there’s no stopping them now. “Stupid to trust. Stupid to dream. Stupid to believe in the fairy tale.”
“I could kill him just for this,” Matteo mutters, taking a corner too fast. “Just for making you cry.”
He growls something in Italian. It sounds super murdery and makes me feel a little better.
“I heard your mother crying. Behind her closed bedroom door.”
His gaze on my face is burning. “Did you think she wouldn’t?”
I thought she didn’t know how, but keep my mouth shut. As I’m beginning to realize, I don’t know much of anything.
We drive for another ten minutes in silence until we pull up to a tall ancient stone wall covered in ivy. The wall breaks, revealing a massive iron gate flanked by a pair of enormous stone lions. Beside the gate is a small metal box on a stand that Matteo punches a code into. The gates swing open slowly, and we pull into a cobbled driveway. On my right is a sunken cloister with formal Italian gardens. On my left are lighted fountains and a rolling green lawn.
Directly ahead is a massive neo-Gothic castle, complete with crenellated tower.
