Page 29

CHAPTER 18

THEODOSIA

The humof the jet was oddly soothing. If I hadn’t been stitched up like a patchwork doll and emotionally ragged, I might have been able to appreciate the luxury of Ilias’s private plane. My brother didn’t skimp. White leather seats, mahogany paneling, chilled water bottles with French labels, and likely a hidden compartment full of guns.

Angelo took me to the back cabin, which was the kind with an actual bed. I had barely walked in on my own. My body still felt like it had been steamrolled and then sewn together with dental floss. My head was light, my shoulder throbbed like a bitch, and yet somehow, my hair was still trying to maintain its curls. I had cobbled together a scarf and somecute glasses so I didn’t look completely catatonic when leaving the hospital, but my choices hadn’t been great. Plus, I hadn’t been able to wash my hair for days. I wasn’t joking when I said they wouldn’t let me shower. I was dying to take a bath and get my hair washed. My first order of business was to get Frankie over to help me out.

He helped me lie down, surprisingly gentle for a man who literally crushes bones with his bare hands. I didn’t say much. What was there to say? Thanks for the rescue? Thanks for peeling me off the floor? I wasn’t exactly feeling warm and fuzzy.

And then he kissed me.

Even as he sealed his mouth over mine, I tried to keep myself from reacting, but as soon as his hand reached up to touch my thigh, I had to bite back a gasp, which was where he took advantage, sliding into my mouth and deepening the kiss. Unsurprisingly, Angelo Santelli knew how to kiss like it was a master class, angling into me so he could taste every corner, pressing into me like he was sampling before diving in for another bite here and there before pulling back to nibble at my lips.

“Mmmm,piccola. I’ve been missing out.”

That made me mad. Even as his thumb pressed against my hip bone and his fingers massaged my skin, the retreat only pissed me off more. Of course, he had been missing out. I was fucking awesome. I’dalwaysbeen awesome. Dick.

“I haven’t been,” I snapped.

I adopted an ‘I don’t give a shit’ attitude. Two could play at this game. No matter how good a kisser he was, Angelo Santelli wouldn’t get under my skin. After the scathing setdown he’d given me at fifteen, I’d barely put myself together. Those words had stayed with me for years — they scarred me. After that moment, I avoided him like the plague, torn between embarrassment, anger, and heartbreak. Then, when I saw the blood oath, it struck me that he might not even have a choice but to marry me. That killed me.

I had worked hard on myself with a lot of positive self-talk to reach where I was. There had been dark times for a while —times when I’d thought maybe I shouldn’t even be here. Now, I got up fresh every day and reminded myself that I was worthy, strong, a good person, and beautiful. That life was worth living.

The cords on his neck tightened, and his hands clenched.

“And stop calling me that. I don’t like it.” It was petty, but every time he called mepiccola, it chipped away at the protection I’d raised around my heart.

His hand spread wider, gripping even more area of my thigh, and I could feel the heat of him through the thin cotton. Why were his hands so big? My traitorous pussy responded immediately to the thought, and it was like he knew because he smiled knowingly at me. Like maybe he knew I was wet.

It pissed me off.

Not because I didn’t want it—God, I did. But because I didn’t trust it, or him, or myself.

I gave him a look that could have curdled milk. “Don’t.”

His brows drew together. “Theo?—”

“No. Don’t Theo me like that.” I shifted against the pillow, trying to find a position that didn’t make me wince. “You don’t get to play hero now.”

He ran a hand through his hair, rough and frustrated. “I just spent three days hunting down the man who took you?—”

“And what? Now you get a gold star and a kiss for effort?”

His jaw tightened. There it was. That familiar Santelli burn in his eyes, the one that usually preceded a broken nose or a bullet to the chest. “You almost died.”

“I noticed,” scoffing. I wasn’t an idiot. Sometimes men said the most inane things. Was there some magic world for them where they thought women didn’t understand the concept of what was happening? Geez. I knew I got shot.

“I couldn’t breathe thinking you might?—”

“Don’t,” I snapped again, cutting him off. My chest tightened, not from the stitches this time. “Don’t say shit you don’t mean. Don’t act like I matter now.”

He didn’t answer; he just looked at me like he wanted to break something. Preferably me, emotionally speaking.

I hated how good he looked, even when he was wrecked. Wrinkled shirt, stubble shading his jaw, that burn behind his eyes. He smelled like expensive cologne, gunpowder, and regret.

I couldn’t take it. So I blurted the onething I’d been holding back. “It was your mother.”

He blinked. “What?”