Page 7

Camilla Vivaldi

Every rustle of the bushes as we pass heightens my senses, and even with the behemoth at my back and the warm breeze on my skin, my fear lodges a brick in my stomach.

I ignore my growing apprehension as I leave my sanctuary behind and stroll down the sidewalk toward the front gate as though nothing is amiss.

My mind still reels from Dimitri’s decision to take me to my room. He not only gave me time to grab my purse, but he also called my brother and waited as I prepared to leave.

The bandage pulls on my cheek as I turn my head to check my trail.

Dimitri’s crystal-clear blue eyes shine brighter than the sky despite his towering height.

I swallow and turn my attention back in front of me when I realize his bulky frame blocks my view of everything except the top floor of the facility.

“Stop, so?lnyshka ,” he demands.

The hairs on my nape raise. I halt.

“Give me your bag,” he says.

Dread floods my veins, but I peel my fingers off the strap of my purse and slip it off my shoulders.

Expecting the worst, I blink in confusion when he takes the bigger bag and dangles my compact purse out for me to take.

The strap seems tiny and delicate compared to his thick, tattooed digits.

I reach out and curse my weak body as my fingers tremble.

His intense blue orbs and ruggedly handsome features steal my breath as he studies my face.

Shame curls through my veins as arousal warms my abdomen. I slip my purse onto my shoulder and lift my chin.

“Thank you,” I say in a voice I haven’t used in ages.

As a successful model, my haughty tone kept paparazzi, other models, and subpar photographers in their place, but since those men broke me a year ago, I had no need to use it.

It no longer feels like a shield. My skin crawls with self-disgust as I turn and start toward the front gate again.

My fallen guardian angel stalks behind me like a deadly shadow. When I realize my arousal grows as I imagine his eyes roaming hungrily over my curves, I huff and rub my fingers over the Band-Aid on my cheek.

No man wants my baggage. I have no curves either. My carefully maintained image is gone, replaced with haunted eyes, weakness, and a frailty I’ll struggle to overcome for years to come.

The guard steps out of the guardhouse and greets us but doesn’t ask for our identification. He wishes me a safe trip and asks me to thank my brother for helping his son.

My guilt grows. I know nothing about him or his situation. I haven’t been able to look past my nose for months. In fact, most days, my pain encompasses every ounce of my focus.

No more.

My niece woke me from a slow death.

I read the man’s name tag and assure him I will forward his message to Giorgio.

Dimitri ushers me away from the man without a word, and despite sizing each other up, neither gives the other hostile vibes.

With the sidewalk narrower but the street busier, I shift closer to the fence as my angel of death insists on walking between me and the road. Despite my apprehension, I force my shoulders to relax and don’t shy away every time his arm brushes against mine.

After strolling along the facility’s border for a few minutes, he turns us into a neighborhood with quaint little cookie-cutter townhouses.

The sun warms my scalp as we pass in between the trees. With less foliage for an attacker to hide behind, the coil of dread wrapped around my chest loosens, and when Dimitri gestures for me to stay by his side as he approaches a black sedan, I don’t balk.

He reaches under the bumper and pulls out the key fob, flips it in his palm, and keeps his body between me and the vehicle as we take a full circle around it.

After ensuring no one is inside and the undercarriage is clear, he unlocks the car, opens the driver’s door, and offers me the keys.

I step back. Vomit climbs up my throat as the squealing of tires and crunching of metal echoes in my ears. A single glimpse of the wheel transports me back to the worst night of my life.

I close my eyes, turn around, and search for oxygen. No matter how much I fill my lungs, I can’t breathe.

“Open your eyes, so?lnyshka .”

Deep. Smooth. Comforting.

Dimitri’s thick accent pulls me from my spiral.

I instinctually follow his command and open my eyes. A few cars drive past in either direction as I gather myself, some with their windows down and music blasting from their speakers while others roll by with barely a sound.

I am safe. I am alive. I am loved. I am healing.

When the sound of my gasping breaths no longer grates my ears, I run a hand over my hair and force myself to inhale long and slow.

“What does that word mean? So?lnyshka ?”

My wayward tongue forms the abstract thought before I can stop it, and I cringe as I butcher the pronunciation.

When he takes longer to answer than I expect, I shift and look over my shoulder at him.

“It is hard to translate the full meaning, but something like a little ray of sunshine,” he says.

I shake my head.

No one in their right mind would compare me to sunshine. I’m a dark and stormy night sky on the best of days.

“Yes, Camilla. No darkness will snuff your light,” he says.

I scoff, meet his eyes, and turn to square my shoulders with his. With a jab of my finger toward the seat revealed by the open car door, I stare deeper into his eyes.

“ This snuffs my light. I can’t get behind the wheel again. I’m trapped in the darkest hell known to womankind and I’m not strong enough to break free.”

An odd tingling begins at the back of my skull, and I realize too late I’m on the edge of a mental breakdown.

His expression hardens. He opens his mouth, but I can’t handle more, so I yank open the back door, plop inside, and slam it closed before he speaks.

Needing a moment to fight off the tingling, I buckle in, close my eyes, and lean my head back on the headrest.

After several tense seconds, the entire car shifts as he lowers his weight into the driver’s seat. When he starts the engine and backs out of the drive without adjusting the settings, I realize he drove the car here.

He offered me the keys as a courtesy.

My mind replays all of his kind gestures, and the skeptical part of me shifts into overdrive, but I stomp on those theoretical brakes and shove the responsible guilt aside.

He doesn’t know my triggers and couldn’t have anticipated me losing my shit over his simple gesture, but there’s no way in hell I’m going to apologize when I don’t understand his motives.

Expecting to struggle with my thoughts, I jolt awake when the car stops and I nearly break my neck as I jerk upright. I blink the confusion out of my eyes and meet sky-blue orbs in the rearview mirror.

“What do you eat, so?lnyshka ?”

Still discombobulated from the unexpected doze, I need an embarrassing amount of time to comprehend his question. A glance out the windshield reveals he parallel parked at the start of a street full of mom-and-pop restaurants and convenience stores.

My insides twist as I imagine joining the crowd. I shake my head.

“I’m not hungry,” I say.

“You must eat,” he replies.

“I don’t want to go out in public.”

I sound like a petulant child.

“I will keep you safe, Camilla,” Dimitri vows.

“I need a mirror. I don’t want to go out like this,” I say.

“I do not have one other than the one on the car.”

He points to the rearview mirror.

My stomach twists. The thought of leaning over the console to be close enough to do my makeup is more terrifying than stepping out into the car.

I shake my head again and wrap my fingers around the door handle.

My breath hitches as my shifting in the seat aggravates my hip, knee, and ankle injuries.

This morning’s mad dash toward safety not only failed but also left me sore and aching.

I pull the handle. Dimitri exits faster than should be possible for someone of his size.

He shuts his door and moves to the other side of mine to act as a human shield as I force myself to climb out of the car.

I slip the strap of my purse onto my shoulder and grit my teeth when my joints creak with every move, but by the time I hobble around the back of the vehicle, my strides almost even out.

Massive shoulders block my path. I halt, but before I can overreact, Dimitri takes my hand, presses a neatly folded stack of bills into my palm, and closes my fist around the money before releasing me and stepping back.

The warmth of his roughened digits lingers on the back of my hand, highlighting how cold mine always are.

“You will spend it all before we return to the car,” he growls.

I glance down. There’s no way I’ll be able to spend all this on food, especially in this area. I look up and lift a sardonic brow. His expression remains unyielding. When I lower my eyes to my fist, my gaze gets stuck on his massive chest.

I do not cook. Ever.

But the thought of preparing a meal for the deadly behemoth warms my blood.

I shove the thought away, stick the cash in my purse, and head toward the nearest convenience store. When I reach for a basket, he takes it from me and prevents me from grabbing another with his tattooed fingers wrapped around the next on the stack.

He follows close enough for me to drop items into the basket and occasionally positions his body to block me away from another shopper, but he always keeps the basket between us and as much space between us as possible in the narrow aisles.

I haven’t visited a convenience store since I was a child. Nostalgia sweeps through me, but the emptiness in my abdomen and pain in my soul mutes the memories.

After filling the basket halfway, I realize I have absentmindedly been choosing things I think the mountain of a man will eat—jerky, cheese, nuts, hardy canned soups, sausage links—and fight the urge to dump everything onto the floor.

When my head spins, I regret skipping breakfast this morning and add a few sandwich wraps and protein bars despite the queasiness in my stomach.