When the bathroom door opens, I close my eyes and feign sleep. I don’t want him realizing I’m awake and that he shouldn’t have left me alone. I don’t need to be handcuffed to him while he uses the freaking toilet. Something tells me Curse would have no problem with this, if it were necessary. Embarrassment seems to be something he isn’t capable of feeling.
I think he might be incapable of feeling a lot of things. He certainly doesn’t seem to have any anxiety about the man we killed together.
That anxiety makes it impossible to continue lying here like this. I pretend that Curse’s footsteps have woken me, and I rub at my eyes, then sit up.
“Vehicle’s here,” he says by way of greeting. I blink at him, trying to brush away the grogginess from my thoughts. It takes me a couple of seconds to remember that he had mentioned a new car would be delivered by one of his men. I get out of the bed, padding to the window. The sky is clear and tinged blush-pink with dawn. In the parking spot in front of our room is a big black SUV.
“We’ll eat and get ready, then we’ll head to my place in Montreal from here,” Curse says.
Breakfast consists of beef jerky from Curse’s pack. Not my typical early morning fare, but it’s a nice change from protein bars, at least. I don’t think I could eat another lemon one even if he tried to make me. After that, I brush my teeth, use the toilet, and shower. After I’ve showered, Curse once again makes an appearance.
“Stay in here,” he says, his hands going to his belt. “I won’t take long.”
So I have to stay in here for his shower again. Lovely. At least I’ve had time to change from my towel wrap back into my sweatpants and sweater this time.
I close the toilet lid and sit there so that I’m not tempted to stare at him in the mirror like yesterday. I fiddle with my nails instead, putting all my focus on them. My wedding manicure is already starting to chip, and I distract myself from Curse’s naked proximity by trying to peel more of the sheer, shell-pink polish off.
The first chance I get, I’m getting my hands on some nail polish remover.
And underwear. Curse didn’t seem to bring any for me as far as I can tell. Or if he did, it’s in his pack and he’s forgotten – or chosen not – to offer it to me.
“I need more clothing,” I say when he steps out of the shower.
And so does he.
I don’t dare look at him. I can tell from my peripheral vision that he’s standing there, naked and dripping, fully facing me. He makes no attempt to cover himself. I guess he isn’t capable of modesty, either. Or maybe he just doesn’t give a damn, because it’s me, and he doesn’t care what I think.
“We’ll get you some in Montreal,” he says. He strides across the bathroom to where I’ve hung the towel. The towel bar is directly across from the toilet, and my breath snags in my lungs when his nakedness collides with my gaze.
His back is to me, at least. But that barely helps. Because the thick, muscled lines of his legs and ass are on full display. His waist is tightly tapered from the astounding V of his back and shoulders. Every inch of him is tattooed.
I can’t look away.
He snatches the towel from its place, rubbing vigorously at his soaked hair, before he wraps it around his hips and leaves the room. I let out a strangled sound, my heart rocketing into my ribs. But before I can take a deep enough breath to try to restore some semblance of calm to my body, he’s back, wearing pants now. He carries the towel with him, along with a small case. My eyes widen when he opens it and pulls out a short, shiny blade.
But then he also pulls out a small can, and I realize it’s a shaving kit.
I should probably just leave him to it. He’s not showering now, so I doubt he’d have a problem with me going back out into the bedroom. I wouldn’t be far. He’d hear me if I tried to leave or do anything he didn’t like.
But I can’t seem to make myself get up and walk away. I’m mesmerized by Curse’s movements. The quick-but-careful, incredibly thorough way he covers his jaw and upper lip with the shaving cream. Suddenly, I’m thrown back to Sicily. Back to watching him carefully fold his things on the beach.
He might think that Accursio Giordano is long gone. But I swear I can still see glimpses of him. Of that brave and careful boy.
Or maybe I’m just deluding myself. Because I’ve missed that boy for so many years. And in my heartbreak, I’m now looking for signs of him that just aren’t there.
Either way, I stay in place, watching him shave. He draws his blade in short strokes along his cheeks, his jaw, his chin. His methodical movements combined with the rhythmic rinsing of the razor are strangely hypnotic.
When he draws the blade down his throat, I tense.
“Don’t you ever cut yourself?” I ask. I’ve never seen somebody shave with a straight razor like that.
“No,” he says, sliding it down the line of his jugular.
Of course he doesn’t. I watched how effortlessly he slit Marco’s throat. If anyone knows what he’s doing with a blade, it’s Curse.
Thinking of Marco and all that blood breaks the spell that’s kept me here. I rise from the toilet and head for the bedroom. I feel fidgety and ill at ease, like I should be doing something right now. But it’s not like I have anything to pack. The only thing I brought to this room is my lingerie.
Where is it?
