Chapter 85

ROSALIND

Dr. Daniel hovers above me in a circle of iron with his limbs outstretched like the Vitruvian Man. Warm droplets of blood drip on my face from his broken nose and severed penis.

I try to thrash within my restraints, but they're like a cocoon, and I can't move my limbs. Then saltwater rises from all directions, threatening to pull me into the sea.

Shit. This is getting worse.

The waves part, and Britt's corpse advances toward me with her arms outstretched. "You killed me," she says in a hopeless monotone. "Because of you, I died the worst possible death."

I open my mouth to scream, but it fills with the doctor's blood. Spitting it out, I yell, "You were supposed to be overseas. If I'd known?—"

Cold intestines slap me in the face. I can't turn my head because my hair is welded to the raft.

Waves bob up and down from beneath, keeping me afloat while the doctor hovers down. His iron circle upends my raft, tipping me into the freezing sea. I gasp, but saltwater fills my nostrils and clogs the back of my throat.

Zombie Britt swims up from the darkness, her teeth clenched. Black bubbles rise from her lips as she screams, "You left me to die, now I'm going to leave you to drown."

Hands grip my shoulders and shake me out of my nightmare. My eyes snap open, and I'm lying on my back, staring up at Cesare's concerned face.

The morning sun drifts in through the curtains, adorning the ceiling with streaks of orange. My heart pounds so hard that its reverberations reach my fingertips. My sinuses still sting with the phantom sensation of burning saltwater, and it takes a second to realize I'm awake and haven't jumped into another dream.

"You were screaming," he says, his voice soft. "Was it a nightmare?"

Twin waves of grief and guilt crash over my psyche, threatening to pull me under. I squeeze my eyes shut, loosening tears. "Britt was there, accusing me of leaving her to die."

"It wasn't your fault," he says, his fingers threading through my hair. "Nobody is responsible for what happened to her but that deranged doctor and your boss who signed her death warrant."

"Tell that to my conscience," I mutter.

"You need closure."

I crack open an eye. "Closure?"

He draws back and sits up against the headrest. My gaze skims over the skulls on his chest before I meet his eyes.

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"When you lose someone you love, only two things will help you move on. The first is a funeral, and the second is revenge against the man who killed them."

My breath stills. "Are you talking from experience?"

"We weren't invited to my mother's funeral," he mutters. "And I never had a chance to deal with the man who persuaded her to get a worthless boob job."

"What about the surgeon?"

Cesare bares his teeth. "He tripped and fell on his scalpel. Multiple times."

"But that wasn't enough," I say.

"I won't rest until the Galliano brothers are dead." He turns to me, his eyes softening. "Go downstairs, stab the doctor to avenge Britt, and I'll drive you to the crematorium, where you can say goodbye to her properly with a burial."

Sucking in a breath, I try to push down a swell of emotion threatening to consume my sanity. Dread pools in my gut at the thought of seeing Britt's dead body, and my insides twist into painful knots.

"Maybe later," I mutter.

"Rosalind…"

"It's too soon." I shake my head, trying to sift through my muddled thoughts. "I just can't."

"Then let's go to the basement?—"

"Do you have a gym?" I ask.

His brows pull into a frown. "Shouldn't you know the answer to that?"

"Because I scoped out your house and its grounds?" I ask with a bitter laugh. "There was a limit to what I could see with all the doors and windows locked."

"Why do you ask?"

"I like to work through tough emotions with exercise."

Minutes later, we're walking toward a set of doors leading to a vast home gym of white walls and spongy black floors, equipped with cardiovascular machines and weight machines.

Avoiding my reflection in a mirrored section with racks of dumbbells, I peer through the glass portion of a doorway into a room filled with boxing equipment.

Gloves hang from hooks on the wall, neatly lined up by size. A punching bag hangs in one corner, but what catches my attention is the boxing ring.

"Fight me."

Cesare scoffs. "No."

I turn around. "Why not?"

"I don't fight smaller opponents," he says with a smirk.

"Especially if they're stronger."

His eyes flare. "I didn't say that, pet."

"Then why won't you spar?" I ask.

"You said fight. If you want me to help you train, that's one thing, but I don't want you getting hurt."

I tilt my head. "It's sweet that you think you could hurt me."

He walks up to me, his nostrils flaring. "Reverse psychology won't work on me, pet."

"Stop calling me that," I snap.

"If you want something to punch, then use the bag," he snarls. "I don't fight women."

I close the distance between us, so we're standing chest to chest. "You're only saying that because I beat you the first time we fought."

"I was holding back. Besides, that drug you tricked me into drinking dulled my reflexes."

"True." I slide my hands over his chest, skimming his nipples. "If you're too scared to fight me, then how about a challenge?"

"I'm listening."

I step backward until my ass hits the door. Cesare advances on me, his pupils dilating.

"Defeat me, and you can fuck me any way you want." I reach behind me, pull the door handle, and step into the boxing room. "Any position, any hole, with or without lube."

His chest resounds with a deep growl. "Rosalind."

"You can even cover me in oil, and we can wrestle."

His gaze darts to a shelf containing supplies, including several bottles of baby oil.

The pulse between my legs pounds to the beat of my heart. "Well? Are you game or are you limp?"

His eyes flicker back to mine with an intensity that makes the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. "You're playing a dangerous game."

"When you lose, I get to stick my fingers up your ass and fuck your tight little hole until you squirt."

His nostrils flare. His jaw tightens. He stalks to the shelf and grabs two bottles of oil. "I'll be squirting alright, when I fill your holes with cum."

Triumph inflates my chest. I jog backward, my lips stretching into a grin. There's only one thing hotter than an enraged Cesare. That's an enraged Cesare with an erection straining through his shorts, ready to wrestle me into submission.

I ascend the steps of the boxing ring and slip between the ropes. My clit throbs in anticipation of what promises to be a game that will chase away my demons.

He unscrews one of the bottles and pours the fluid over his chest, darkening the ink with a slippery sheen. His eyes never leave mine as he advances toward the boxing ring like a tomcat closing in on his prey.

"Strip."

I fold my arms across my chest, my gaze raking over Cesare's oil-slicked muscles, which ripple with each movement as he ascends the steps.

"Make me," I say.

His eyes gleam with a predatory excitement. "Challenge accepted."