Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 127249 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 636(@200wpm)___ 509(@250wpm)___ 424(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127249 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 636(@200wpm)___ 509(@250wpm)___ 424(@300wpm)
I lean in but think the better of it. “Run, Tatiana, while you can. Or I’ll take you to the party with ruined lipstick and bite marks on your neck.”
“You’re beyond saving,” she says, only partially teasing.
“Yes.” I let her go. Step away from her. Put a safe distance between us. “But you like that I’m savage when it comes to you. It shows you the effect you have on me.”
The look she gives me has me hungry again in a second flat. I spin on my heel, hating my weakness. “Give me five minutes.”
And not looking back, I head into the bathroom and take six. It’s not before ten that I trust myself enough to face her again.
Chapter
Thirty-Nine
Tatiana
* * *
I do as much damage control as I can in five minutes, fixing my make-up and hair, but I don’t clean away the residue stickiness that dried on my thighs or in the crack of my ass. The perverted side of me likes to wear Dante’s marks on me, hidden where no one can see. I don’t mind the discomfort or the ache that lingers from his roughness. It reminds me of what we share, and what we share has always been precious to me.
Even now, as I walk to the jewelry drawer, it’s as if I’m floating on air. Dante was right. I like to know that I have this effect on him, that I can shatter his control. He fought me for a long time, never allowing me to get close enough to penetrate his armor, but tonight, he showed me how much power I have. It’s only fair, seeing that he has the same power over me.
I stop in front of the dresser and study my reflection in the mirror that hangs above it.
Oh, dear.
I look well-fucked. My make-up and hair are in place, but I have a flush on my cheeks and a telltale hazy look in my eyes.
Too bad.
I don’t care if the whole world knows what we did. Our love is fierce and beautiful. There’s no shame in that.
Uttering a happy sigh, I open the drawer. Jewelry fills the velvet-covered compartments of the specially designed interior—diamonds, rubies, pearls, and emeralds. Each piece is unique and worth a fortune. They belong in a safe. Although, the security in and around the house is top-notch. There’s not a chance of a thief breaking in here.
Tracing a finger over the glittering stones, I scan the white and yellow gold rings and bracelets. I’m not a jewelry person. I hardly ever wear any. It’s a shame. Almost all of the jewelry bears the exclusive stamp of Hart Diamonds, a world-renowned brand. The emerald set with the simple yet elegant choker will go well with the dress.
As I reach for the earrings, my eye catches a necklace that’s shoved into the back behind a string of pearls. The silver cross with the red crystals seems out of place between the other pieces. The pendant is beautifully crafted, but even a layman like me can see it’s not made of precious metal and real gemstones. What draws me isn’t the fact that the costume jewelry doesn’t belong with the other expensive pieces. What compels me to reach out is a deep sense of longing, a painful awareness that its value isn’t calculated in dollars but in blood.
My hand trembles slightly when I lift the chain from the drawer and hold it up in the air to examine the pendant that lies on my palm.
You’ll find everything you need there.
An image of my mom bending over me, smiling with tears in her eyes, flashes through my mind. I blink at the pain that accompanies that image. The two—the visual and the emotion—are inseparable. The hurt is so visceral that I feel it like a serrated blade in my chest.
Oh, Tatiana. He played you.
The pain is excruciating. I place a palm over my heart where an invisible hand drives the jagged knife deeper.
What’s happening to me?
Another picture stabs into my mind, a car turned onto its roof, swallowed by flames. And another. A hospital room. Jazz sitting white-faced next to the bed. A stuffed dinosaur propped up in a chair.
Get your slut of a daughter out of my sight before I kill her.
I see myself knocking on my father’s study door, cupping my stomach where my secret is growing. I see my mom as she takes the necklace from around her neck and pushes it into my palm, her sad eyes filled with love as she closes my fingers around it.
Flames.
Cars.
My back.
The whip in my father’s hand.
What is his name?
Leander pinning me down.
His fucking name, or I’ll beat it out of you.
I slam my hands over my ears, the cross pressed against my temple, trying to block out the images. But they keep on hitting like a hailstorm, filling my brain with broken shards of damaged pieces. Sharp and piercing, they cut where they land, maiming and drawing blood. Yet slowly but surely the pieces snap together like the shattering of a window played in reverse, its dirty, cracked glass reflecting a horrible story.