Driving home, I let myself into the penthouse and sigh, awaiting another night without her.
I stare at my bloody hands, feeling no remorse, only pride, pondering what she would think of seeing the monster at play. One thing that keeps me from confessing is that I don’t feel bad about my actions, but I loathe the thought that she’ll find excuses to live with and love the man I truly am. Unlucky for her, I am not a good man and never will be.
At the bar, I pour myself a glass of scotch when the lights turn on.
Shit.
In a negligee, she crosses her arms over her chest, arching a brow at me. “Long night, husband?”
Fuck. I should have checked. This woman never ceases to surprise me. “Shouldn’t you be at the beach house?”
It’s then her eyes move down to the bloody hand holding the glass.
She swallows, eyes blinking in a frantic movement as if to convince herself I am unharmed. Running to me, she discards my jacket and rips my shirt, her rapid movement revealing her agitated state.
She cares. For me. The man who just slaughtered two men, feeling nothing but contentment.
The bottle drops from my hand, spilling just like my insides.
“It’s not my blood,” I say, my voice gentle, overcome by emotion.
Her movements come to an abrupt halt, her palms resting on my chest.
She tilts her head, looking up at me. “Did they deserve it?”
“In my eyes, yes.”
She nods as if coming to terms with something. “When was the first time?”
“Age twelve.”
Shock transforms her features, color draining from her face. The sight of me scares her. Everything I was terrified of plays out in front of my eyes.
I am about to move, giving her space to cope with reality when she grabs my hands, eyeing the reddish hue as she caresses me. “I don’t like seeing blood on you.”
Relief so potent hits me, I drag in a lungful of air filled with pure life, feeling oddly at peace as she keeps watching me. No judgment. No fear. No repugnance.
“Let’s wash it away,” she murmurs.
My insides burn up with sheer need, and I follow her as she brings me to our room and into the shower.
I blink at her, not understanding if this is happening or my fucked-up brain spun a fantasy. It wouldn’t surprise me if I lost my mind over her.
Even if I die from craving her, I will never force her. I might like to lead, initiate, and be in control, but permission must be granted and trust assured.
Forever has passed, waiting for her to accept some things, fucking me up even worse. Now that she does, it makes me question whether she’s a figment of my imagination. That I am high on the blood I spilled for her.
I cup her cheeks, and she leans into my touch as if she missed it.
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” I ask because, to me, this is surrender.
“No, Tristan.” The corners of her mouth arch up in a small smile. “I never know with you.”
I move forward, erasing the space between us. Lowering my face, I take her mouth in a passionate kiss that revives my insides, feeding me a shot of life equivalent to the highest dose of ecstasy.
Ever since I met her, I felt alive, but now, after months of hibernation, I enjoy the bliss to the fullest. Teeth and tongues collide to satiate a yearning that grows every day.
Viviana moans, giving herself to me, both drifting into euphoria. She latches onto my shoulders, anchoring herself to me. I am hers. She’s mine. Nothing and no one could change that.
