Page 19 of The Villain's Beloved (The Villain's Duet 2)

His dark brows slanted inward. “Oh, you’ll be thanking me…tonight. Naked.”

“You know, for a man who kills people for a living, you are such a guy.”

“A man has his needs.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Okay,” he stepped back, “apparently, I have travel arrangements to make, and a huge fucking protection detail to plan.”

I was impossibly giddy with excitement—minus the daunting knowledge of some mafia family who wanted to get their hands on me and do God-knows-what to me.

A stabbing pain jolted up my fingers, into my right hand, and I tried to shake it out, fisting my fingers.

Elijah stilled as he reached the door, glancing back at me with a pained expression. “If I were a man who believed in miracles, in God…I’d pray for Him to rid you of that cross you have to bear.”

“I’m fine, Elijah. It’s—” But he was out the door before I could say anything more. It had been so long since there was someone in my life who cared so much about me that my pain became his. It was bittersweet having someone care so deeply for me.

I took my time showering, getting dressed, blow-drying my hair, and adding a touch of make-up. Even though the sun was shining, autumn meant an early winter chill would be in the air, so I opted for black denim jeans and an oversized white turtleneck. It took a moment’s glance in the mirror to convince me that I would never be able to play the part of an affluent, high society, glamor girl. A rich man’s wife. A mafia wife.

My stomach turned. Every now and then it hit me that my life had become a live action movie. A goddamnSopranosepisode with mafia bosses and assassins, my grandfather being a part of that world. The man I shared a bed with too.

There was no use denying it or trying to fight what I felt for Elijah. Whatever the future held for me, for us…all I knew was I wanted him to be a part of it. No matter what the cost, or the sacrifice.

The cello case caught my eye, and there was this overwhelming urge inside me to play. To lose myself in the music. To find silence just for a short while.

Every time I touched the neck of a cello, the feel of the smooth finish would remind me of how deep my passion for music ran—how firmly it was engraved into my soul. The bow, the strings, the earthy scent of resin—this majestic instrument and its power to create flawless vibrations and timeless tenors were the oxygen in my blood. It was the one constant in my life.

I closed my eyes as the cello’s neck rested against my heart, hyperaware of the weight of the bow in my palm. With my feet flat on the ground, posture firm and breathing steady, I waited for the music to pour out of me and resonate on the instrument. Only, it didn’t come. Not while my fingers ached and my palms burned. A two-and-a-half-pound bow suddenly weighed a ton, and I was barely able to keep it steady.

God, no. I wanted to play. I needed to play. My soul yearned for the melody while my mind craved the silence. But my body had declared war against my needs—its weapon, rheumatoid arthritis.

Frustration pulsed in the back of my head while I desperately tried to bite back the tears. It wasn’t the first time I couldn’t play because of my hands, and it wouldn’t be my last. Yet every goddamn time it fucked with my head—slicing a part of my soul from my bones. As if it wasn’t enough not being able to play in front of people, I had to have this crutch forced on me as well.

Try again.I could hear her say it. My mom, standing behind me, urging me to try again after I had failed to find that perfect vibrato for over two hours.

Never give up.

If you want it bad enough, it will happen.

Every dream has its sacrifices. You either make those sacrifices and live with the consequences, or live without the dream.

“With it,” I whispered. “Not without.”

I lifted my shoulder, inhaling deeply, steadying the bow. I tried. God knows, I tried. But the pain was too debilitating and far stronger than my love for music. Today, anyway.

A tear slipped down my cheek as I lowered my arms, and as I opened my eyes I stared right at him. Elijah. Standing by the door, watching me, his expression a reflection of my pain.

There was no way I could have hidden what I felt at that moment. Frustration. Disappointment. A longing to do what I loved without limitations. Even knowing how it affected Elijah couldn’t stop all the feelings from sweeping over me.

I cried, dropping the bow to the ground. Elijah was at my feet, replacing the cello with his comforting presence, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me down to the floor with him, cradling me against his chest.

My solace. My peace. My protector.

A gentle stroke of his hand brushed at a curl that clung to my wet cheek. “I’d fight the devil for you, Charlotte. And I’d go on my knees before God…for you.”

The power that resonated from his words slammed against the deepest part of my soul. To hear a man like him who thrived on power, putting his faith in no one but himself, say that he’d surrender for me was such a defining moment, my heart could burst. This was him revealing that he loved me without telling me. Erasing those three words and replacing them with a piece of his soul. Along with the affection I already had for this man came a sense of appreciation, thankfulness…relief that I no longer had to bear this cross alone.

I nestled my face into his chest. “Where have you been all my life?”

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