Chapter 28

TWENTY-EIGHT

Angelo

The naked woman on the bed has black rivulets of mascara running over her cheeks. The red lipstick bleeds over the lines of her lips and smears her face. Her dark hair is tangled, sticking to the damp skin of her forehead. A layer of sheen covers her golden skin. Her breasts heave with the effort of dragging air into her lungs, and her flat stomach quivers from the aftershocks of her orgasm. Her legs are spread, and my fist is buried between her thighs, the barrel of my gun lodged in her pussy.

It's a messy, crude, somewhat shocking picture. And fuck me if it's not the hottest sight I've seen, if she's not the most beautiful woman I ever laid eyes on.

Violent emotions twist her features. The ecstasy of climaxing. The uncertainty of an outcome. The fear of dying. Shame, perhaps. The most vivid is her anger. It's more an aftereffect of the shock than a result of my actions. I saw it in her pretty, wide eyes. She wasn't sure if I'd pull the trigger. She still isn't. That's why she's watching me, frozen in this spectacular display of a well-ruined woman.

Waiting.

She learned her lesson.

The game is over.

Careful not to hurt her with the sight on the muzzle, I pull the gun from between her legs. The barrel is coated with her arousal. It's not a game I intended on taking that far. She just doesn't know when to fucking stop pushing me.

I'm not unaffected. Far from it. I want her too much. I hate her too much.

Putting distance between us, I leave the gun on the dresser and head for the shower. I don't make it to the door before I sense her movement. I never quite know what to expect from Sabella, but what I see when I turn around freezes me on the spot.

She's jumped from the bed and snatched up the gun, pointing it at me with her arms locked in front of her and the shaft clutched in both hands. The gun shakes violently in her hold. It's not just her hands. Her whole body trembles. Her face is contorted in a mask of hatred and fury.

Her voice is as tremulous as the rest of her as she aims for my heart. "You sick fuck."

I raise my hands. "Calm down, Sabella."

"Calm down?" She laughs. "You could've fucking pulled the trigger."

I keep my tone even. "I didn't."

"Your finger could've slipped."

Unbuttoning my shirt, I turn back for the bathroom. "I know how to handle a gun. I'm not shooting since yesterday."

She sounds close to hysteria. "Do not fucking take another step."

I face her again, letting my shirt hang open. "What are you going to do? Shoot me?"

"I should," she says, her teeth chattering. "You made me believe you were going to pull the trigger. You fucked with my head." Her voice rises in volume. "Did you enjoy that sick game, huh?"

I walk back to her slowly. "Are you angry that I didn't shoot you?"

Her nostrils flare. The gun shakes even more in her hands. She pushed me. Now, I'm pushing her. What are her limits? How far is she prepared to go?

"You should've just done it, you coward," she grits out.

I step right up to her, letting her press the barrel on my chest. Lowering my lips to her ear, I caress her with soft words. "Remember, cara, your life is mine, and I decide when I pull the trigger."

Retreating with a smile, I watch her. Faint blue bruises shaped like my fingertips mar her cheeks. I always regret the marks, but I can't deny who I am. Yet something stirs in my chest when I take her in as she stands up to me, looking too damn fragile and brave with that weapon in her hands. I doubt she's ever held a gun.

I hold out my palm. "It's over." The game. The lesson. "Give me the gun."

Mistrust flickers in her eyes. She doesn't believe me. But there's also a spark of vulnerability. She wants to believe me. In the end, a vicious mixture of shock and anger wins out, distorting her pretty features.

Not breaking our eye contact, she braces herself. She tightens her finger on the trigger, gets a feel for it. Time stops. So does my pulse. There's nothing but her, me, and that gun. As if in hindsight, she jumps back a step, making sure I can't grab her, all the while pointing the gun at my heart.

The human body is wired to function on instinct. The spiking of my heartbeat is an involuntary impulse. The organ reacts to being threatened. We're tuned in to each other, breathing each other's air and will of survival. Like a hunter and its prey, we're connected in the most intimate of ways in the second that separates life and death. In that second, we're living inside one another. I feel her intention even before I see it in the way her eyes flare at the same time as her pupils contract.

Surprising both of us, she takes the leap. She jumps over a cliff from which there's no return. Instead of going for quick and painless, she aims for my stomach.

Click.

The hammer triggers the striker, firing the empty chamber.

Her face turns ghostly white. She's shocked that she did it, that she would've killed me. Or maybe that she didn't. That she chose a long and torturous suffering instead of a quick and painless death. Perhaps she's most surprised by the latter. Hell, so am I. I didn't think she had it in her, not even for a minute, and I can only respect her for it.

The gun drops from her hand, hitting the floor with a clank. She backs up, looking from the gun to me.

"Sabella."

The commanding tone of my voice stops her. Her gaze flits to the useless weapon on the floor.

"Look at me," I say, the instruction gentle.

Her gaze snaps back to mine.

"It wasn't loaded." I advance cautiously, reaching for her. "The chamber was empty."

She shakes her head, making her hair fly around her face. She doesn't want to believe what's right in front of her eyes, let alone trust me.

I take another step. "They'd never let me carry a loaded gun in the airport."

Her eyes clear a little as the logic gets through to her.

"It's over." I close the last distance between us and trap her in my arms. "Nothing would've happened."

All that wildness caught inside her erupts. She fights me like a lioness, kicking and clawing and screaming. It doesn't take much to hold her in the vise of my arms and lift her off her feet. Pressing our naked chests together, I let her carry on until she's tired herself enough to sag like a rag doll in my hold. Dry sobs rack her shoulders.

"Shh." I brush my lips over her forehead. "I'll never let anything happen to you."

"I hate you," she says, her voice raw and broken. "However much you hate me, I'll always hate you more."

"I'm sure you will."

I hook an arm beneath her knees, lift her into my arms, and carry her to the bathroom.

She continues to fight, but her effort is feeble, her strength spent. "Put me down."

"In a minute."

When I deposit her on her feet, she wraps her arms around herself and stands there shivering. I turn on the tap in the shower, letting the water run warm while I make quick work of undressing. After testing the temperature, I pick her up and put her under the spray. She hisses as the water runs over her ass.

I don't linger. I only take as much time as necessary to wash her clean and rinse her hair. That wild look on her does things to me, things I don't like. I prefer her better like this, looking whole and normal. Not broken and unraveled. Not ugly inside. That's me. That's reserved for the monsters.

She's gone from shivering and crazed to numb and vacant when I'm finished. I dry her off before taking a towel for myself. Making her sit on the closed lid of the toilet, I use the hairdryer to dry her hair. She lets me, not saying a word or looking at me or herself in the mirror.

She remains quiet while I dry my own hair, accepting whatever fate I choose for her. That's all right. Now isn't the time for talking.

I carry her to the bed, pull back the covers, and lay her down. She curls into a ball like Pirate used to do. Maybe I should get her another cat when we get home. Ryan informed me about what happened. Knowing how much she loved that cat, I can only imagine how hard it must've been for her.

When I've tucked her in, I pull down the shutters in front of the windows to shut out the daylight. Casting a glance at her, I pick up the gun. She's not looking at me. She's staring with non-seeing eyes at the wall.

I lock the gun in the safe—I'll clean it later—and get into bed beside her. She doesn't protest as I spoon her from behind and wrap my arms around her. Her body is soft and warm, the curve of her back and ass fitting perfectly against my chest and groin. I've never held a woman like this, and I take a moment to revel in the warmth that seeps from her skin.

I wait until her breathing changes to a slow, even rhythm before untangling myself from her. Taking care not to wake her, I make sure she's covered before I get dressed. Then I go to the lounge to make arrangements for when we'll land in Marseille.

Half an hour before the pilot announces our descent, I go back to the cabin. I stop at the side of the bed and study the sleeping form of my wife. Even under a heap of fluffy goose feathers, her shape is slender and fragile. With her palms pressed together and forming a cushion for her cheek, she looks innocent.

Blameless.

She is innocent, but she's also guilty. She's always been guilty, even before she pulled the trigger. The mere fact that she breathes earned her the liability that comes with the blood of her family name. That very name, the name of my enemy, is the means to recognition and honor, to opening the doors that have been closed to me until now. Her father may have turned us into the rivals we became, but she's mine. She's always been mine. For as long as I live, she'll belong to me.

Wiping the hair from her face, I say in a quiet voice, "Wake up, cara."

She stirs but fights consciousness, no doubt preferring to hide in the dark.

I give her shoulder a gentle shake. "Open your eyes, bella."

She lifts her eyelids and blinks. Her gaze is soft and hazy, and then it becomes shuttered as reality sets in.

"We're landing soon," I say. "You better get dressed. Your suitcase is next to the closet. Do you want me to help you?"

"No." She sits up and swings her legs over the side of the bed. "I'm fine."

"Come out when you're ready." Something tightens in my chest when I watch her naked curves. My cock stirs as I look at the juncture of her legs, remembering the sight of my gun there. "You have to buckle up for the landing."

Going to pains not to touch me, she shifts all the way to the headboard before standing. I remain on the spot as she walks a wide circle around me, goes into the bathroom, and shuts the door. The lock clicks in place.

I don't give sound to the sigh trapped in my lungs. It's going to take time. This thing between us, this hatred that binds us, knows no other way. It's not going away. We'll have to learn how to live with it and how to get around it. It doesn't help that I have no experience in this minefield called a relationship. Adeline was much better at people skills.

The thought of my sister twists my gut. Her absence is still like a visceral hole in my life. Hardening my feelings, I return to my seat and lose myself in work until Sabella returns. She's wearing the clothes Celeste packed for her—a pair of ripped skinny jeans, a tight T-shirt, ankle boots, and a leather jacket. Her hair is brushed out, and her face is free of make-up.

My gaze is drawn to the beauty spot at the corner of her mouth. I've always found that pretty. Cute. I haven't had many opportunities to study her, but I know every inch of her body as if it's my own. She's ingrained in my memory, a living entity beating alongside my heart under my breastbone.

I don't miss her flinch when she puts her ass on the seat. Leaning over, I secure her safety belt. She lets me but flattens herself against the backrest to prevent my arm from brushing against her breast.

It's past dinner time. I had meals prepared. They're in the kitchen, ready to be nuked, but with what happened, food wasn't on my mind. I doubt she had an appetite. Even so, we also skipped lunch. The growl of her stomach confirms that she's hungry.

"We'll eat on the yacht," I say. "We're about to go in for the landing."

She turns her face toward the window without answering.

It's the middle of the night when we land. A hostess boards to pack our bags. She eyes me with interest in the passing but quickly averts her eyes at my hostile look. I take the coat I bought for the occasion from the closet and hold it open for Sabella. When I helped her to fit her arms, I button it up. Through it all, she refuses to meet my gaze.

A car waits at the airport to transport us to the marina. The skipper greets us at the yacht. A helper takes our luggage and carries it to the cabin. We'll spend the night on the yacht and leave at first daylight.

Sabella follows me wordlessly to the lounge where a table is set. The chef prepared a meal of grilled chicken and roasted vegetables. A waiter pours wine while I remove Sabella's coat.

Once I've seated her, my wife allows the waiter to spread the napkin over her lap, but she doesn't pick up her knife and fork when he leaves.

"Eat," I say. "You need your strength."

Pursing her lips, she pins me with an antagonistic glare.

I take a bite of the chicken and swallow it down with some wine. "See? It's not poisoned."

My attempt at humor isn't appreciated. She narrows her pretty eyes, staring at me as if she'd rather stab me with the butter knife.

"It's delicious," I say. "I promise."

She scoffs and looks away.

My tone is stern. "Eat, Sabella."

She blinks fast but not fast enough to clear the glimmer of tears that shines in her eyes. Picking up her fork, she toys with it for a while. Finally, she stabs a cube of butternut and brings it to her mouth.

The food really is delicious. I hired the best chef in Corsica. Once she's tasted the creamy squash with hints of nutmeg and passionfruit, she digs in.

I watch her between forkfuls of food, noting with satisfaction that she cleans her plate. She polishes the chocolate and vanilla mousse cake topped with raspberries too but declines the waiter's offer of herbal tea or coffee.

"Still hungry?" I ask when our plates are cleared.

She replies in a barely audible voice. "No, thank you."

I stand, go around the table, and pull out her chair. "Tired?"

She gets to her feet. "No."

"I can give you something to help you sleep."

Her spine stiffens. "I said I'm not tired. I slept the whole afternoon."

The waiter hands me her coat, which I hang around her shoulders. "You needed the rest."

She doesn't reply.

She tenses more when I take her elbow to steer her across the deck and downstairs to our cabin. The rocking of the yacht is gentle, but it's easy to lose your balance if you're not stable on your feet on the sea. Even though she doesn't seem to need my help, I insist anyway.

The yacht is a work of art. The Sea Hawk is fitted with the best quality stainless steel railings and Burmese teak decks. Blue floor lights illuminate our way.

"Here," I say, indicating the door at the end of the passageway.

I open it and step aside for her to enter. When she spots the woman in the white tunic waiting inside, she stops abruptly.

The esthetician smiles warmly. "Good evening, Mrs. Russo." She nods at me. "Sir. Everything is ready."

Sabella flings around, facing me with borderline panic. "Ready for what?"

"For preparing you for our wedding night," I say as I take her coat and throw it over the back of a chair.

"Preparing me how?"

I close the door and lock it. "You can start by undressing and lying down on the bed."