Violet whistled at me, motioning that the group was going for a walk. I pointed toward my cabin, having no plans to spend time with them.
The refrigerator and cabinets were stocked with the food I had bought, so I decided to cook instead of mope. It was one way to keep my mind occupied. Taking out all the ingredients I needed for chicken potpie and chocolate cake, I set the scene even further with measuring cups and utensils, pots and pans, dishes and an apron. I turned on the oven.
The front door creaked and then closed. I turned my back, not wanting Violet to see me so muddled. I waited for her to speak, but when she said nothing, I turned back, thinking that I had imagined the sound.
Brando stood next to the counter, his hip against it, his arms crossed over his chest. He motioned to my outfit with his chin. “You look tough. You must feel tough too.”
I raised my chin to his outfit, which was the male version of mine (except he had on jeans instead of leggings). “So do you.” Despite his proximity, I stood next to him and fiddled with all the ingredients on the counter. “And I’m not sure. Am I feeling tough? You tell me.”
“You almost got me killed last night.”
My mouth fell open before I snapped it shut. “How so?”
He ignored this question. “Or put away for the rest of my life. But Stone would love nothing better than to have a legal excuse to kill me. You gave him one.” The muscles in his forearm tensed, the veins there rising with his temper.
His words set me into motion, and I raised my hands, flour flying everywhere. “I couldn’t sit by and just watch while he…while he abused you!” I shook my hands again. “You don’t deserve his hate!”
“He used you against me, knowing what it would do to me.” He advanced on me, pinning me against the counter. His nostrils flared with his temper, a dragon about to set fire to the world. But all that I needed to see resided in his eyes. He had been afraid, afraid of what the sheriff would do to him in front of me.
His cheek was a bit swollen, a red tint beginning to mar his beautiful skin. Hesitant but determined, I caressed the spot with one fingertip. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I shouldn’t have—I couldn’t. I couldn’t let him hurt you again. I didn’t know what else to do.”
He covered my hand with his own, and I thought he would rest his face against my palm. Instead, he slid his fingers down to wrap around my wrist, stopping me from touching him. Something told me he wanted me to, but he wasn’t sure how to let me. That was all right, though; whatever way he needed me, I was there.
“How long?” I asked softly. “How long has he been doing this to you?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Yes, it does. It matters to me. Tell me.” I drew in a breath and released it. “Please.”
His hold grew tighter and I squirmed a bit to let him know it was uncomfortable. He released the pressure but didn’t let me go. Neither did his eyes.
“There’s been bad blood there for years, even when Nick and I were friends. Luca Fausti killed Nick’s mother. Luca had been drunk and should’ve never been behind the wheel of a car. After Nick died—” He shrugged, as if that answered all of the unanswered riddles.
“Luca is?”
“Lucious Leone Fausti is my father.” He seemed to spit out the word “father,” like it was distasteful.
Strike three.
“And he’s still in prison?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh,” was all I could manage. “So the sheriff blames you for it all. Even the sins of your father.”
“He can’t separate me from Luca. Make the distinction. The night of the train accident, they had searched for me too. They knew I had left with Elliott and Nick. I didn’t go home right away. I stood behind to watch you leave. That’s when I found the thing—theribbon—from your hair. Stone knew that I should’ve been in the car, but I wasn’t.”
“Because of me,” I said.
“You saved my life,” he said. “More than once.”
“Was he telling the truth? About Nick?”
“Being sweet on you?” His grin didn’t touch his eyes. All I could find was sadness when I desperately wanted to find something else. “Yeah, he was telling the truth.” He searched my eyes for a moment. “Tell me, Scarlett.”
He had said those words to me before. Two words that were more commanding than any other words I had ever heard. It wasn’t the words though; it was just Brando Fausti, moving me to respond to what he knew I’d understand. Something inside of me instinctually knew what he asked of me, and I answered.
“I won’t do it again.” I took a moment to collect my breath. The way he looked at me seemed to teeter on the edge of rage and sexuality. It felt like a thin line for him to cross, either way. “If it happens again, I’ll keep quiet. I won’t put you in that position again with the sheriff.”
