My world tilts again. My thoughts blur. Lucilla tried to seduce Cyan. I see her again in my mind–the tight smile, the flickers of fear, the cracks in her voice. I remember her eyes searching mine as if she wanted someone to see her. She reminds me of myself in a way, before I met Tasha. Lucilla probably needs someone to talk to.“I’ll talk to her, let her explain.” I whisper, turning.
“Aria, wait.” I look back.
Rosa’s voice softens. “You are kind, Aria. But remember, trust is everything in this family. Don’t let the wrong person play with yours.” Her gaze lingers meaningfully. “Learn from how we met. Don’t give your trust away so easily again.” Her words landed like stones of truth. Rosa turns and walks back to the house. But her warning stays behind, heavy as salt in the ocean air. Rosa’s trust. Lucilla doesn’t have it, and if she ever finds out about Ethan, about the FBI...Neither would I.
Thirty-Eight
“I called him a monster and still begged him to make me scream.”–Aria Boschett.
Some days later, exhaustion hangs off me like a wet cloak as I step out of work. Another restless night tangled in Cyan’s bed, fighting my body, leaves me raw. But last night… there were no arms around me. No warmth, no Cyan. He never came home.
Johnny opens the passage door, the question slips out before I can stop it. “Where’s Cyan?”
Johnny’s mouth kicks up at one corner. “Missing him, huh?”
Heat creeps up my neck. “I was just asking. He’s been coming home late a lot...and last night, not at all.” I keep my voice light, but the words taste sour; I know there’s a war going on and Lorenzo Rizzotto wants blood. But Lucilla’s voice slithers into my head, anyway.Elana said she sees him when he’s in Boston.
Johnny shrugs. “He’s had a lot on his plate. Office work, family business, other matters.”
Other matters.My mind twists with what he’s really doing. “Oh.” My reply comes out too soft, too unsure.
His teasing fades, and he studies me more closely. “You good, Aria? Something happen?”
“When Cyan’s in Boston, does he…” I catch myself and shake my head. “Never mind.”
Johnny raises a brow but doesn’t push. “Whatever you’re thinking, ask Cyan yourself.”
He offers his hand. I take it, sliding into the backseat. As I click the seatbelt, I catch Johnny glancing at his phone, thumbs moving fast over the screen.
Of course he’s texting someone; it’s probably Cyan. “Ari, you didn’t answer my question.”
The lie feels thick on my tongue, but I keep my promise to Lucilla. “Nothing. I have a headache, need food, and need sleep.” I inject some nonchalance into my tone, hoping he won’t press further.
Johnny studies me for a moment before nodding. “Alright, let’s get you home.” The ride is unusually quiet. I close my eyes, pretending to rest, but my mind is a mess of what-ifs and Elana-shaped images I don’t want to see.
This is good, I tell myself. He’s finally losing interest. I’ll get my life back. But the ache in my chest calls me a liar. I ignore it deciding that Cyan not coming home is great. No more late-night stares, no belly-button caresses. No waking up with his body wrapped around mine. Maybe I’ll finally stop wanting what I was never supposed to have.
* * *
My father’s body drops forward. Blood pooled around his middle, bright and wrong against the pavement. My fingers lock around the grip of a knife handle. Dad’s warm blood drips from the blade’s tip–drip, drip… drip.
I can’t move. I can’t breathe. Hands grab me from behind, hauling me back. I twist and see Cyan standing there, perfectly composed in a pinstriped vest, sleeves rolled, like he’s been working, handling things, cleaning up what I’ve done. Except… the streetlights blink out. The knife vanishes from my hand. So does my father’s body.
I jolt upright in bed, a strangled sound tearing from my throat. My skin is damp, my heart pounding so hard my breathing is uneven.Just a dream.
“Dove.” Cyan’s voice comes from the edge of the bed. He’s still in one of his suits, jacket off, tie loose, eyes shadowed with concern. “What the hell’s going on? You were screaming loud enough to wake the dead.”
My breath saws in and out. “It’s nothing, it was just a nightmare.”
His gaze sharpens as he comes closer. “That wasn’tnothing.”
I don’t want to talk, don’t want to think. I don’t want to sift through guilt and ghosts and my cursed history clawing its way back to the surface. Without thinking, I reach for his belt, fingers fumbling with the buckle. I need distraction, need sensation, needhim.
He catches my wrists, grip firm. “What the fuck...” His voice drops to a hoarse whisper. “Aria.”
I try to twist free, to get where I want—where Ineed—but his hold only tightens. “Aria.” His voice softens. “Look at me.” I drag my gaze up to his. “Are you sure?” The question is simple. The answer isn’t. I could say no. I could shove him away, cling to pride and logic and all the reasons this is a bad idea. Instead, my answer comes out broken.
“Yes.”
