I want to turn myself in.
This is why he handcuffed me.
Somehow, he knew. He knew that once he was asleep, and I was left here in the mess of what we’d done, that I wouldn’t be able to handle it. Not like he can.
It makes me feel so stupid. So small. The same way I felt on that beach twenty-two years ago, when I wanted so badly to prove myself to him but only ended up nearly drowning myself in water he had no trouble navigating. I’m not like him. And he knows it.
But even so, my promise was real. No matter how much I can’t stand just lying here with panic climbing up my spine, vertebrae by vertebrae, I’m not going to do anything about it now. I’m in this too deep with him. And, as crazy as it probably is, I don’t want to get him into trouble. The idea that he could get caught, or be punished for what happened tonight, makes me want to throw up all over again.
Jittery, I snatch the TV remote from my bedside table. It’s just within reach. I jump when the TV comes on because it’s so loud. But Curse doesn’t stir or snort or react at all.
Maybe that’s another reason that he handcuffed me. If I left right now, I don’t think he’d wake up even if I slammed the door on my way out. If he weren’t obviously breathing, and so fucking warm, it would be like lying next to a corpse. The thought should make me shiver, but he really is like a furnace. Heat pours off of him, wrapping me in a bizarrely comforting glow.
Is that warmth why I’m not frightened of having him beside me in the same bed? I should hate being in bed beside a man. The mere thought of being in bed with Marco had literally made me break out in stress hives on more than one occasion. I ended up hurting him very badly last night in order to prevent it. Not because I even meant to. But it was like my brain had shut down, and my body had lashed out on its own. I try to remember the exact moment that I pushed Marco, but can’t. There’s only the memory of his hands on me, his mouth at my ear. A sudden burst of black in my head and fear like lightning in my limbs. Then he was bleeding and unconscious on the floor.
Why don’t I feel like that here? Now?
I have no protection against someone like Curse Titone. I wouldn’t be able to physically hurt him if I even fucking tried. I am literally bound to him with no way to escape. I’m nauseous and panicky and frightened, but none of those feelings are aimed at Curse. They should be. I’ve watched him kill two men in my life, and I know he’s killed many more. As far as I can tell, he doesn’t feel a shred of guilt or remorse about any of it. By any reasonable standards, he’s probably a psychopath. Even a serial killer.
I have to be afraid of him. I try to frighten myself, replaying the images of him slicing Marco’s throat without a hint of emotion on his face. I even go back to that moment in the bathroom, when I felt his erection briefly against my body. But even that doesn’t spark the visceral terror and disgust that it should. The idea of male arousal has made me sick my whole fucking life.
But not now. Not with him.
Maybe it’s because he didn’t try to touch me. He didn’t even seem to want to help me take off my wedding lingerie before.
Other men would have reacted very differently to that scenario – having an exhausted, vulnerable woman who is completely under their power practically beg them to help them get undressed.
As the TV blares in the background, I shift my head to look at him. He’s lying on his back, totally still apart from the rise and fall of his broad chest. He’s fully dressed in all black – a T-shirt and jeans – and the intricate sleeves of his tattoos cover the lengths of his muscled arms. But up close like this, I see it isn’t just the tattoos on him. There are deeper scars, too. Nicks and divots that speak of bullets and blades.
There are no scars above his neck. No, his face is truly flawless. Not cherubic like it once was, but that of a dark and fallen angel.
I’m struck with the bizarre and sudden urge to touch his face. To feather my fingertips over the curves of his lips. Just to see what he would feel like.
And that, absurdly, is what finally has me afraid of being in bed with Curse Titone. I’m not afraid of him. I’m afraid of what being with him makes me feel.
Mouth dry, I redirect my attention to the TV. I flick through channels, everything blurring into meaningless light and colour before my eyes. Eventually, I turn down the volume, unable to bear the loud voices any longer. When I land on a few different news channels – the first couple in French, then one in English – my heart shoots up to my throat. But there’s no mention of Marco’s murder. No breaking news about one of New York’s biggest bosses dying. No story about his missing wife.
I don’t find that reassuring. The story will come out soon enough. And even if the police don’t get involved, Marco’s allies surely will.
I must be important to someone, though I haven’t a clue why. I don’t control any of papà or Marco’s business interests. But Curse risked a hell of a lot to be in New York last night. To kill Marco. To take me. And since he does Elio’s bidding, I guess Elio must want me for something. Or maybe Elio’s new ally, Darragh Gowan, the Irish boss I’ve heard is now married to their cousin Valentina Titone.
My breath becomes shallow. Will Curse hand me over to his brother? To Darragh?
To someone else?
I scrunch my eyes shut, as if to block out the questions, even though they’re already inside me. I keep them shut so long I eventually fall asleep. When I stir next and open my eyes, Curse is already awake. He’s staring at me, and I soon see why. His arm is bent at the elbow and his forearm is clasped firmly between both of mine. His hand is right below my chin.
I’m hugging his arm like it’s a teddy bear.
“Sorry,” I say, releasing him at once, face heating. He merely blinks – slowly, nearly dazedly. Maybe he’s only just woken up as well. He doesn’t speak. Then, in a swift movement, he stretches for something and rolls back towards me. By the time I realize what he’s got, the handcuff has been unlocked. I rub absentmindedly at my wrist and sit up.
Something crinkles, then lands in my lap. I pick it up.
“What’s this?”
A pointless question. I know what it is. It’s a protein bar. I can see as much from the package.
“Something to keep you conscious,” he says with a nearly mercenary lack of sentimentality. “It’s been a long time since you’ve eaten.”
