Is being loved by a Vici so abhorrent to her?
“You don’t have to say it back,” I mutter through gritted teeth, already retreating behind the walls I never should have let down.
The silence between us is deafening. She can’t even look at me.
I just bared my soul to a woman who can’t stand the thought of loving me back.
She’ll marry me. She’ll fuck me, if what just happened between us is any indication. She’ll stand beside me.
But love me?
Apparently, that’s asking too much.
I release her, and she climbs back into her seat. The intimate warmth between us has evaporated, replaced by cold and brittle tension.
“I’ll get you home,” I say, my voice flat.
The drive to the Montoni mansion is silent.
Adora stares out the window, her hands twisted in her lap. I keep my eyes on the road, jaw clenched so tight my teeth ache. Every mile feels like a knife twisting deeper.
I shouldn’t have said it. Shouldn’t have opened my mouth and handed her the power to gut me.
But I thought—
Christ, what did I think? That she felt the same? That the way she came apart in my arms meant something beyond physical release? That choosing to marry me meant she actually wanted me, not just to escape from her father?
I’m such a fucking fool.
When I pull up to her mansion, she reaches for the door handle immediately. Desperate to get away from me.
“Adora—”
“Thank you for tonight.” Her voice is strained. She still won’t look at me. “I’ll…I’ll see you soon.”
She’s out of the car before I can respond, practically running up the steps to her front door.
I watch her disappear inside, and the emptiness that settles inside me is familiar. This is what I know. Isolation. Distance. Contempt.
I should go home and analyze the phone data Matteo’s received by now. I need to focus on getting my guns back and planning my next move against the Dervishis.
But all I can think about is the fear in her eyes when I told her I was falling for her.
I drive away from the Montoni mansion and end up at a dive bar three blocks from my house, and change into a fresh T-shirt from my trunk.
The bar is the kind of place where no one is eager to talk, and the cheap whisky burns going down. I claim a stool in the corner, order a double, and try not to think about honey-blonde hair and amber eyes that won’t meet mine.
The bartender is a grizzled man in his sixties who’s seen me plenty of times these past few months. He pours, I drink, and the world blurs at the edges.
My ribs ache where the massive Dervishi bastard landed his hits. My knuckles are split and swelling. There’s dried blood in my face that I should probably clean.
Physical pain I can handle. It’s clean. Straightforward. The bruises will fade in a few weeks.
This hollow ache where hope briefly lived is going to be harder to shake.
“Another,” I tell the bartender.
He pours without comment.
