Page 19 of Blind Devotion (Letters of Ruin #1)

I glanced about the room, acknowledging its utilitarian design.

There wasn’t much. I had set her up in the service wing on purpose.

Granted, it was the largest of the staff quarters bedrooms, but there was little more than the bed, a side table, two chairs, a table, and a built-in armoire.

The reason this one had been chosen compared to another was because of its en suite bathroom with the added balcony access.

I never thought she needed more, not when she wasn’t supposed to last even this long.

“What do you do all day?”

“Seeing as someone locks me in?” she deadpanned. “Let’s just say making it to the balcony today without wanting to puke my guts up in pain was my crowning achievement.”

“That’s it?”

“I’ve gotten adept at talking and singing to myself.

I sleep. I thrum my fingers against the bed, the furniture, the IV pole until I get sick of that.

I try talking to the nurses when they come in for checkups, to poke and prod me, but they’re pretty close-lipped around me.

Marie’s friendlier, but the guy at the door doesn’t let her stay long after dropping off food.

One doctor checks my eyes, then practically runs out with barely a few words, and Dr. Conde, well, she just sounds like she’s in your pocket. So, conversations there are a no-go.

“Your sister hasn’t visited since I first woke up, not that I’m too hot on that.

So yeah, pretty lonely, I’d say. Otherwise, I pace around the room.

I’ve gotten up to handling thirty back and forths now without needing to sit down.

Look at me go. Honestly, these”—she gestured vaguely between us—“whatever these moments are, are probably the most entertaining things to happen to me all day, every day.”

That twinge in my chest tightened. I massaged against it. “Then perhaps I should fix that.”

“You’re leaving?”

“You need your rest.” And I needed to get my head on straight. I was already up and out the door, firmly locking it behind me before her next protest came.

I stopped by at midday as a crew installed a television for her, just to check on their progress.

I had a meeting in town soon. That changed when I found one of them leaning over Tessa as he was explaining the remote, more like looking down her gown.

Her head was turned away from him, her spine rigid.

A vein near my eye twitched, and my jaw clenched.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

The guy jerked upright. His eyes widened, dropping Tessa’s hand. He’d been touching her while she’d been uncomfortable. I lunged at him.

His companion tried and failed to talk me down. He knew better than to try to pull me off the asshole. My fingers squeezed around the guy’s throat as he weakly pawed at me. His touch only made the instinct to kill that much worse. It crawled and burned from every feeble swipe he gave.

His face reddened as saliva bubbled out of his mouth and vessels popped in his eyes. My lips twisted in a sardonic smile. I loved watching abusers die. My own suffered painfully when my father went back for them. I remember every bit of the torture they endured.

An awkward pat to my ribs made me switch focus. Tessa. She was out of bed, her back hunched from the effort. Her hand slipped around my bicep and tugged. I expected to recoil and want to vomit from the touch. Instead, pleasant flickers of warmth spread from the connection.

“I’m fine,” she whispered. “I’m okay. Let him go. Please. He’s not worth it.”

Her fingers caressed their way down to my own. Everywhere she touched, my skin prickled with awareness. She plucked my fingers one by one off his neck.

The guy collapsed to the ground with a thud before his colleague helped him to his feet.

“You ever get close to her again, you’ll be lucky if rats get to eat your entrails. Get out. I’d better never see you both again.”

They scrambled away like the worthless vermin they were while Tessa clung to my back. Her head rested against my spine. One hand stroked up my back while the other clung to the arm that had held her abuser.

“Thank you.” Her warm breath skittered through my dress shirt, scalding the skin beneath.

Suddenly, I had to get away. It was too much. Too real.

“Wait. H-he didn’t finish showing me the remote.”

“I’ll send Marie to explain it to you.”

“But I—”

I shot out of the room and locked the door.

Marie, my house manager, not a maid, was more than capable of explaining the remote, and I had far too much to do to get sidetracked again.

I had already delayed a meeting with the French Ministry of Sea and Coastline that I refused to push back further.

It had nothing to do with the prickles still swarming my arm and back.

It had nothing to do with how good that connection felt. It couldn’t last. It wouldn’t.

I was obviously a glutton for punishment.

In the odd hours of the following morning, when my insomnia hit its peak, I was back in her room. A still screen image of musical performers on the television brightened the place while a recorded symphony played Ravel’s “Pavane for a Dead Princess”. My heart ached just listening to it.

I stood mesmerized, blasted back to the past.

One of my only friends in the world used to put on spontaneous concerts for me whenever I visited her in the States.

Persetta was gifted on the piano and the cello, but her main talent lay with the violin.

I listened to her for hours as she swept through pieces by Vivaldi, Bach, Boccherini, Chopin, and many others.

I loved listening to her play, but this song…

This exact song was the piece she played for me over the phone the very last time I ever answered her call.

I still remember staring into space, losing track of time as the slow, melancholic notes gripped my soul and told me exactly what I was doing to her.

The music drowned her sobs, but I could still hear them.

We didn’t speak throughout that entire call, and when the song ended, I hung up and blocked her number.

Persetta was haunting me through this woman.

My thumb smoothed over the cast-iron shot weighing down my hand—my ruthless weapon of choice for the day.

I had carried it over after practicing some throws on my training field out back.

My days training for the Olympics in shot put and javelin throws were long in the past, ever since Yannick died, but I kept up the exercise.

It was particularly useful in excising the demons of my past, at least for a couple of hours.

I leaned over her prone body, the iron ball dipping the mattress just next to her head, and inhaled her scent. Wildflowers covered in sea breeze and honeydew left to ripen to perfection in the sun. She smelled of better days and wishful thinking…every good thing I didn’t deserve.

My nose grazed her neck. She stirred, and I lurched back.

“You’re back,” she said softly as a sleepy smile crept up her face. “I missed you.”

Her hand reached for my face. I didn’t pull back further.

I couldn’t say why not. Anyone else, I would’ve, but I let her soft fingers trail down my cheek and brush my hair back, all while bracing myself for the disgust. No nausea.

No tightening of my skin or muscles. Just a quickening of my heartbeat.

“Ouch.” She hissed and pulled away, her arm twisting around until her fingers reached the shot ball. “What is that? Jesus, that’s hard.”

“That’s what she said.” The words were out before I could stop them.

She barked a laugh, gripping her side.

“Oh my god, was that a joke?” She tapped my shoulder. “No, you didn’t. Tell me Mr. Serious Mafia Boss-slash-Hitman didn’t just make a lame joke. What even is that?”

“From The Office . An old American TV favorite of mine.”

The ongoing string symphonies in the background were messing with my head. Now I was spitting out jokes, reminiscent of the days Persetta watched old reruns with me instead of playing with her young teenage friends.

“Careful. Your age is showing.”

“I’m not old.”

“How old exactly are you?”

“Only twenty-five.”

“Seriously? Isn’t that a bit young for the whole mafia boss-slash-hitman thing?”

“Young heart, old soul.”

“You mean…”

“Too much shit in too little time.”

“Oh.” She pursed her lips, chewing on the insides, and rolled her shoulders.

Again, she grimaced, her hand going for the shot.

“Seriously, what is this thing? Is this…Oh wow, heavy. I guess I can see how that would be effective, but that’s brutal.

My poor face. Not a nice way to go. What’s it doing on the bed?

Just leaving potential murder weapons lying around now, are you? ”

I chuckled, surprised at the sound. She never reacted how I expected her to. I took the ball from her, noting a tremor in her hand. “If you must know, I took it off the field after strength training this evening.”

“Right.” From the slight quake in her voice, the omission hadn’t provided the comfort intended. She lifted her chin, acting so brave. My fingers grazed the curve of her jaw. When she leaned into the touch, I swore my heart stuttered. “Some assassin you are.”

“I’ll have you know I am quite adept in usual circumstances.”

“There are usual circumstances for murder?”

“I’m not sharing trade secrets.”

“Is that another joke? What’s going on with you tonight?”

I didn’t have an answer for her. I had spoken more with her over the last few evenings than I normally did with anyone but Erel. It was easy, simple. Dangerous.

All I could think about was the curve of her lips as she smiled.

That mouth of hers, that sassy, bewitching thing, deserved to be filled, rough and hard, so she understood what her teasing did to me.

The way her plump lips would fit around me.

How deep she’d take me. How warm she’d be.

Et merde , shit, that image was doing me in.

I pressed a hand against my sweatpants and adjusted my semi-hard cock. These thoughts had no place between us.

“Sleep. No murders tonight.”

“Promise?”

I kissed her forehead above the bandages before thinking better of it.

“Yes,” I whispered against her skin. Just that small touch felt like too little yet too much.

Had she been healed, I’d have pulled her into my arms, holding her as I did the night she crawled onto my boat over three weeks ago when she asked me that same question.

“Stay with me?” she asked.

It was like she didn’t care who or what I was. That was fascinating in and of itself.

I grunted my acceptance and dragged one of the armchairs to her bedside. And when she reached out her hand to me, I didn’t hesitate to take it. Her thumb flitted over the backs of my scarred fingers.

For the first time ever, the scars—both surgical and trauma-induced—didn’t flare with electrical pain at the slightest graze. She must have felt the scars, but she didn’t ask what caused them. It made it easier to forget she shouldn’t be touching me at all.