Yes. It has to be.
This morning, Antonio told me about him. Even without the details, the outline alone was enough to make me feel bad for him. And then Antonio said he kidnapped me to torture me, but he isn’t. So now I’m thinking, because of that, maybe he’s not so bad.
I press my hands to my spinning head.I’m developing Stockholm syndrome. Shit.
This can’t happen. I have to stop it before it gets worse.
“He is your captor. His morality and rationality are both questionable. He is not a good man,” I mutter to myself.
Bruno watches me from his bed, head tilted, then pads over.
I cup his face. “Bruno, he’s a bad man, right? A cruel monster, right?”
Bruno tilts his head, probably wondering why I’m babbling.
I sigh and rise. “Forget it. Let’s sleep.”
I turn off the bright light, leaving only the warm dim glow, and settle into Bruno’s bed. He snuggles up beside me.
Salvario
“Repeat.”
Cross nods and begins repeating himself for the third time. He’s the head developer of Texan, my aircraft business.
To them, I’m only a name, none have ever seen me. Antonio is the face of my enterprises.
“As I was saying, the major change is in velocity...”
“Why aren’t you torturing me?”
“So you admit kidnapping me was a mistake?”
Her smirking face. Eyes glistening, like champagne poured into crystal.
It’s starting to feel like a mistake. A grave mistake.
“We’ll continue this tomorrow.” I end the meeting, it’s only wasting my time now.
I shut down my PC and push back from the chair. With quick steps, I leave my study and head down the hallway toward the other side, a strange flutter growing in my chest, irritating my head.
It’s around midnight. A dim yellow light from Bruno’s room falls across the corridor. I step inside, careful not to make a sound.
She’s curled up in his bed. I step closer, slowly, drinking in the sight of her as she sleeps.
I sit on the floor beside her and examine her wounds. The burn has nearly faded. I lift her right hand and begin unwrapping the bandage. She hasn’t changed it all day.
The torn skin has knitted, it will heal in three days. I’ll apply ointment and rewrap it.
I trail my gloved thumb lightly over her palm. Her skin yields under the slightest pressure—soft, almost weightless beneath my touch. An urge to feel it without the glove rises in me, something I’ve never felt before. I hate being touched, hate touching anyone. Even through gloves and clothes, it makes me nauseous, furious enough to want to kill whoever dares.
“How are you doing this?” I mutter, looking at her sleeping face.
I can’t understand her effect.Why does she have this effect on me that I can’t resist? I hate it. I hate how I’m drawn to her, a helpless moth toward fire, knowing all too well that the fire will erase me.
I need to take revenge on Alexander Bennett. I won’t find peace without it. The child won’t stop haunting me, nor will he let me die. I’ve taken revenge on everyone else, only one man is left. The one who started the ruin.
She is the only way to shatter him, to force him to feel what that child felt—the child frozen in time, still breathing, still whispering within me. Breaking her is the only way I can break Alexander Bennett.
