Page 80 of Vicious Behaviors

In the meantime, the mic picks up her voice, soft and broken, like a whispered prayer laced with pain. “Marcello.” That’s all she says. My name. As if it were both a curse and something sacred.

I stare at the screen as she drifts off to sleep, clutching my photo to her chest as if it were all she needed to keep warm.

“Fuck!” I snap, cursing at her through the screens, needing her to wake up, even if only just to throw a blanket over herself.

It’s fucking February, goddamn it! It’s three degrees outside and snowing—the kind of cold that cuts through wool and settles deep in your bones. And judging by the look of her almost bare apartment, I doubt it’s any warmer inside.

Why doesn’t she go to bed? Why sleep on the floor? Why is she punishing herself?

Why did she say my name? Was she calling out to me?

Again, I’m drowning in questions instead of answers. And when I can’t take another second of seeing Izzie like this, I do the only thing I can think of.

I listen to her call and go to her.

Chapter 18

Isobel

Strong, gentle arms lift me off the floor and cradle me against a warm, broad chest. I don’t think much of it since I’m still half asleep, too wrung out from the day to fully grasp what’s happening. It’s not until I’m laid onto my bed ever so carefully that I force my lashes to flutter open, coming face to face with Marcello, who is now lying beside me.

Fear should strike me. Horror, even. I mean, this man somehow managed to sneak into my home and thought it was a good idea to tuck me into bed like I’m some kind of porcelain doll. But that’s not what I feel.

The moment I meet his calm, light-blue eyes, any instinct in me that screams out caution just quiets. As if his mere presence is a balm to my aching soul.

“Do you always break into women’s apartments in the middle of the night?” I ask softly, unable to tear myself from his gaze.

“This is the first time,” he whispers back, as if afraid talking any louder might scare me.

“I find that hard to believe. You’re too good at it.”

It’s supposed to be a joke, but Marcello doesn’t laugh. In fact, his frown only deepens.

“Why didn’t you come to work today?”

“I wasn’t feeling well,” I answer as truthfully as possible.

“Are you sick?”

Am I sick? I must be. I must be sick if I can’t stop thinking about his mouth on mine. I must be truly unwell to want nothing more than to feel his tongue tease me in the most glorious of ways, despite knowing whateveralterlives inside him could take over and ruin the moment for us with just a snap of a finger.

“Yes,” I answer him finally.

“You don’t look sick,” he murmurs, studying me, concern pulling his brows together.

“Sickness of the soul and mind hurts just as much as the body’s,” I confess, softly.

Somehow, he seems to understand what I mean by that. As if what I just said made perfect sense to him. And why wouldn’t it make sense to him? Marcello’s soul has probably been in agony for longer than anyone deserves. But though he might be on a first-name basis with such suffering, I doubt he understands what I’m up against.

Marcello has no idea of the internal battle I’ve been fighting. How could he? How could he possibly know that I spent most of the day trying to understand what is broken inside him, instead of continuing to build a case against him like I should? That I didn’t leave my computer for more than five minutes, trying to learn what could cause his mood swings. To see his facial features actually change before my very eyes.

I can still see it as clearly as I’m seeing him now. How his entire being shifted. And how hard he tried to fight against whatever was taking hold of him… and lost.

Marcello is damaged in more ways than one. And yet something about him clings to me, like a song I can’t forget. He’s scarred, and something about his scars calls out to mine. I think they always did. From the moment I saw his picture the first day at the field office with Haynes, there was something in the pain hidden in his eyes that summoned my own. Nightmares of the things I had done in the name of honor, duty, and country stared back at me, all that crippling misery reflecting in one solemn look. That pull hasn’t left. It has only intensified.

“Izzie,” he calls out my name, suspending my thoughts. “Why aren’t you afraid of me?”

“Who says I’m not?”