Page 11 of Intrigue
I should feel nothing for him except a burning desire to hurt him as he did to me years ago. I can’t feel…this—whatever this sick, twisted thing is rolling up my spine.
He stands up then. He’s probably six feet something and is dressed in all black, with nothing out of place, a dark god carved from sin. His hair is gelled and styled back, but there are loose strands on his forehead, strands that cling dutifully where I ache to touch, to pull, to ruin him with my hands.
I watch him lean down to whisper words to a fierce-looking man. Then he straightens and, without sparing me a second glance, dashes out of the room, leaving me simmering in my own filth.
I’m fuming when I flip sideways to the man beside me. “Please, if you’ll excuse me, I need to take care of something.”
“Oh, right.” He smiles sadly, allowing me to keep my composure until I too am out of the room, glass in hand and chasing the ghost of Sandro’s shadow. I follow the sounds of receding footsteps, not knowing if I’ll see him but refusing to give up, my blood screaming for a reckoning.
I should have said something before. Lord knows there’d been quite a lot of things simmering in my mind—none of them good—when I saw him again, but he’d been by my father’s side, untouchable. If I’m ever going to lay my mind out for him, bare my teeth and my rot, I’m not going to do it trapped in a room with my controlling father watching. It’s why I’m more than desperate to find Sandro again and desperate to corner him, to break him open.
Chapter 4
Selene
The hallway is long and spiraling, with so many doors I don’t think I’ve ever been to or seen. The air is cool here, with heavy pictures on the walls, oppressive and cold. It’s hard being in here, trying to fight my way out of the chill darkness, because of the past and my father’s wicked ways, but I think these years away have taught me to push ahead and hold my ground, to sharpen my edges into something lethal.
I’m not going to stop until I get my revenge.
At the end of the hallway, I stumble into a garden and have to pause and breathe in the soft smells of roses and nature and crisp air. In the sky, the moon is halved by clouds gathering, and as a warm breeze caresses my skin, I falter, unsteady with want and rage.
I take a look around. The garden isn’t remotely beautiful. The twisted vines edging up an old stairway and the withering roses give the place a kind of stillness that’s tense, decaying, but I walk in, moving past the benches and shrubs and roses to find—
“Alessandro!” I don’t know if I've said his name out loud until he’s turning, slowly, like he isn’t certain what he’s going to find, or maybe like he’s been waiting for me.
He leans in, voice dropping. “You look out of it, little Marconi. Finally come to the realization that the painter’s not doing it for you?”
“Shut up and do not call me that,” I counter, then step back. “You don’t know anything about him.”
“I know he’s not me.” He follows, matching my step, eyes locked on mine. “I know you’re always still thinking about me whenever you’re with him.”
I want to hit him. I want to scream. Instead, I throw the rest of my wine in his face. It splashes red across his shirt, dripping down his chin. He freezes, then laughs, wiping it off with his sleeve.
“That’s my girl,” he teases. “Keep fighting. Makes it better when you give in.”
“I’ll never give in,” I hiss. “You’re nothing to me, Sandro. Nothing.”
He grins, slow and mean. “Keep telling yourself that.”
“Why are you such an asshole?”
The frown on his brow tightens. “You’ll do well not to speak to me like that, Selene. I’m not the man you once knew. I’ve strangled men for less.”
“Yeah? You’ll always be a puny coward in my eyes.” I move closer to meet him and slap him the second I’m close enough. Hard. His eyes widen as he lets out a soft, measured gasp of surprise, but I feel the heat of him, the solid wall of his chest. “That’s for today. You think you can just show up here by my father’s side and boss me around? I’m not the girl you used to know, Sandro, so don’t fucking mess with me. Stay out of my business.”
“Or what?” He sizes me up, hands flexing as he corners me, voice dropping. “What is it you’re gonna do? Call your freaking fiance who, by the way, looks like he couldn’t fight his way out of a wet paper bag? He can’t save you from me, baby. You can’t keep pretending he’s enough. I see it, Selene. You’re burning up for me, dying to feel something real.”
“You’re delusional.”
“Am I?” He steps closer, breath hot against my hair, stirring it just enough to prickle my skin. “Tell me your pussy didn’ttighten the second you walked in and saw me. Tell me you don’t want me to slide my hand down there right now, prove how wet you are, and fuck you proper and better than that painter’s limp dick has in five damn years.”
I move to hit him again, but this time, he’s prepared.
He catches my hand and, with control and skill, pulls me away from him and slams me against a tree. Slamming might not be the right word because when he holds me and presses his body against mine, he’s artful and deft about it, pinning me with a sick precision.
He holds me firmly but not enough to hurt me—the distinction is one I find conflicting, intoxicating, as his hips grind into mine, his breath hot on my neck.
“Get your filthy hands off me!” I yell as I push him away, but my voice cracks, betraying the ache between my thighs.