It’s small but unmistakable.The reddish tint to his lips and chin.Humiliation flames under my skin.Curse, however, looks entirely unaffected.It’s like he didn’t even hear me.
“You didn’t lock the door.”
“I…Oh.No, I guess I didn’t.I forgot.”
He’ll have to forgive me for that, considering he’s the one who basically turned my brain into nothing but flickering static and my legs to noodles.
But there’s no forgiveness on his face.There’s an icy tension around his eyes.
“I told you to lock it.”He sets down the suitcase he’s carried up the stairs and crosses his arms over his chest.In the time he’s been gone, he’s put on a black T-shirt, the fabric moulded to his muscles.“You should have listened.”
“Well, I-”
“There is no, ‘well,’” he interrupts coolly.“There are no ‘buts.’When I tell you to do something, you have to fucking do it.Especially once we are out of this house.Messina is still out there, and who knows how many people he’s got hunting you.He obviously had somebody in Montreal who tipped him off about us on that train.”He grasps the suitcase handle, extending it so he can roll it, which he does as he approaches me.The wheels click smoothly over the floor.He comes to a stop before me and tilts the suitcase my way, offering me the handle.I take it, my fingertips brushing his knuckles.My breath quickens.The air goes thick between us.
“You may not like me,” he says, voice dropping lower.“But I’m going to need you to at least try to trust me.If I tell you to lock a door, you lock it.If I tell you to run, you run.If I tell you to call the fucking cops-”
“Thecops?”
His eyes glint.Onyx and ice.
“If I tell you to, you do it.No arguments, no questions.”
He’s right.His life could very well depend on it.Alessandro needs me alive, at least long enough to marry me and keep me for thirty days.But he wants Curse entirely out of the equation.He already nearly killed him once.He fully planned on the drugs doing the job.
I nod, the walls of my throat sticking together.
“It’s not exactly that I don’t like you or trust you,” I manage to murmur.“It’s just that…maybe I don’t know you.”I fiddle with the suitcase’s handle, avoiding his gaze.I’ve still got my goddamn wedding nail polish on from New York.My voice falls to a whisper.“I knew Accursio.But you are…”
“Somebody else,” he supplies.
I nod once more.
He observes me in silence for so long that I give up on waiting for any more continuation of the conversation.Crouching awkwardly in my towel, I tip the suitcase to lay it down, then unzip it.The box of pads is on top from last time, the cardboard ripped open at the end.I grab a pad, then start digging around for an outfit.Going for comfort, I select granny panties, sweatpants, and a soft sweater.
I can feel the cold burn of Curse’s eyes on me as I stick the pad to the underwear, then shimmy it all up my legs.Quickly, I do the same with the sweatpants and then throw on the sweater, forgoing a bra for now.I know there’s a stick of deodorant in the bag somewhere – one of what feels like the millions that Curse procured for me – but I’m too embarrassed to put it on in front of him.Which is probably dumb, because he just had his head between my fucking legs.
That still makes no sense.If it weren’t for the tinge of dried blood on his face, visually proving what happened, I’d probably be wondering if I dreamed it.
“Here.”His voice catches me by surprise.He’s got something else in his left hand that I didn’t see before, too focused on the suitcase he carried with his right.He opens his fist to reveal a small tube of antiseptic cream and a large adhesive bandage.I stare blankly down at the offering.
“For your head,” he adds.He taps his temple with his right index finger.“Just had my fucking mouth there, and I’ve never been one for kissing things better.You’re probably going to get an infection at this rate.”
A blush heats my cheeks as I remember how things started.With him tasting that tender place by my hairline, groaning like a starving man.To distract from the sensation, the searing memory, I take the bandage and the tube from him.In the moment before he lets his empty hand fall, I glimpse the single tattoo on the centre of his left palm.The solitary capital A.
“What does that stand for?The A?”I ask him.
He appears not to even register the question.There’s no flicker of emotion or recognition on his face.He shifts his gaze somewhere behind me – to the mirror.Maybe he’s watching our reflections.Maybe he isn’t watching anything at all.
“Another time,” he says.
“Wait, like, the A stands for that phrase?For the word ‘another?’Or you’ll tell me another time?”
He doesn’t answer.
I don’t know why I even bothered hoping that he would.
Chapter11
