Page 9

CHAPTER 9

Haze

She looked adorable while kneeling against the back seat of my car, the pink plug peeking out between her pale cheeks, her long ponytail hanging over her shoulder, glossy black fingertips digging into the leather headrest.

“Get your shoes on,” I say, “We’re here.”

I’ve never seen anyone with her coloring—skin so pale, hair so dark, lips such a deep rose. Sometimes, when I glimpse her, her beauty stuns me momentarily. I watch her now as she pulls on her sneakers, bending on the seat carefully, trying to avoid putting any weight on the toy's handle.

I chose this toy because there’s no way to forget that it’s there.

She hasn’t experienced the vibrator mode yet.

“Ready to tour your new home?” I ask.

She tells me she’s as ready as possible, and I can respect that. It’s a significant change, and she’s a brave girl. I know this will be difficult for her, and I’ve tried to make her comfortable.

I know she likes things neat. So, I had the staff stock the kitchen with what I knew to be her favorite foods, place vases of fresh flowers throughout the home in her favorite color—pink—and deep-clean the already immaculate rooms. Also, we have a Bachman-Tech computer for school, a television with all the streaming services, a brand-new wardrobe, and anything else she may need or want.

I open her car door and lead her up the brick walkway from the Alfa to the open navy-blue front door. The gold emblem of the Villa is stamped on the center of the door, and a V in a delicate font is set in the center of a gilded circle. Warm white light spills over the stoop where my house manager, Gian Conti, awaits us.

When Liam and his brothers first moved to the Villa, Gian was drawn to our world but wasn’t interested in our grueling initiation process—violence, “mafia stuff” (his words), or weapons. He’s a “Bachman friendly,” someone we trust to join our outer circle.

He was born locally and has an olive complexion like the other Italians in our fold. Tall and slim, he’s impeccably dressed in a pinstripe suit and vest with a mint green silk tie. He wears his medium-length silver hair swept back, well-groomed, like his neatly trimmed gray beard.

Instantly, he’s drawn to her. Who wouldn’t be? I trust Gian completely. He’s the only man I’d allow to stay here with her alone during the day when I work. But what about the other men?

Jealousy rises in my gut, green like bile. There are many eligible bachelors, many fish in the sea—or turquoise lake—and closer to her age. Our men will be respectful, but her eyes will wander the grounds.

What if she likes what she sees?

“This must be the lovely Ophelia.” Gian’s genuine, wide white grin spreads over his face, not the tight smile he reserves for polite encounters. “And may I add—your name is almost as beautiful as your striking face.”

Ophelia smiles back. She holds her hand out to shake his. “Hello?—”

“Gian.” He takes her hand, surprising her with a kiss. Of course, she blushes. He speaks with a thick accent. “I’m here to ensure you have whatever you need.”

She surprises me by answering him with an immediate request. “I could use some help studying for my Italian exam.”

Sliding his arm through hers, he guides her into the house. “I’ll show you to your room.”

And just like that, I’m the third wheel, completely unnecessary, unwanted.

My hand slides into my pants pocket for the remote to send a strong vibration through her ass. I desire her full attention. I long to review our rules and remind her of the obedience she promised me. My eager thumb slides over the small silicone remote.

I watch as she and Gian move further into the house. Her ass looks enticing in those jeans, and I picture my plug safely nestled there. I hold my thumb over the button, waiting for the right moment to strike. Once, Gian’s not looking at her face, she will be able to recover quickly enough to hide her reaction from him as the toy vibrates inside her, sending new sensations through her body.

They’ve made it over to the stone fireplace, and I’ve not yet found my opportunity. Then, he tells her he will show her how to operate the gas logs. Here is my perfect moment. I wait for a beat, giving him time to bend down, facing away from her to access the switch—my thumb still hovering.

She says something in her hesitant Italian, and he replies with beautiful words.

Her face breaks into a smile. I hear her laugh.

The sound fills the echo-y space, transforming the entire feel of the home. ‘Til this moment, it’s been a bachelor pad—two boring men, both way older than this girl who lights up the entire room with melodic peals of giggles.

I slip my hand from my pocket.

What she needs right now is a moment of normalcy. Abandoning the toy, I join them by the fireplace and touch her arm, gaining her attention. She tips her chin back, paying me a flicker of attention.

“Gian will take good care of you and get you settled in.” Would she prefer I stay? “Unless you want me to stay,” I add.

“No. Thanks.” She backs away from me like I am someone’s pet snake that still has fangs. She turns back to Gian. “We’ll be fine.”

One minute together, and now they’re a “ we ?”

I growl, saying, “Gian will draw you a bath before you go to bed.” I eye her ass, letting her know that’s the time she can remove the toy. I raise my brows in question—does she understand?

She gives me a brief nod. “That sounds nice. I can wash away all the stress of the day.” Her eyes cut to mine.

I stand there for a moment, still the third wheel. Their conversation picks back up, Gian asking what time she’d like to be woken, what she thinks she might like for breakfast…

I leave them with a brief, “Goodnight.”

They both bid me a quick goodnight, effectively dismissing me.

Heading up the stairs, my hand grips the polished railing. I pause at the landing long enough to steal a parting look at her before I retreat for the evening.

She stands beside Gian, smiling in a way she never will for me.

She’s at home in her skin, rare for that age. She’s hopelessly unaware of her captivating presence. Or her classic, almost haunting beauty.

Like the view of the lake at midnight under a full moon.

Feeling my gaze on her, she turns. Our eyes meet and, the smile falls from her face, freezing somewhere between fear and confusion. My chest tightens. It’s difficult to breathe.

She does something to me. It scares me; I feel out of control.

My hand goes back into my pocket, and I push the button. She gives a start and a squeal. Her hand goes to the mantle, anchoring herself as the powerful vibrations do their work. I press the button again, turning the toy off.

She gasps and exhales. Gian says, “Are you alright, signorina?”

“Y—yes… I’m… okay.” She pauses a moment, then says, “Just nerve pain. Sciatica. It starts in the lower back and radiates down the leg. You never know when it’s going to hit.”

Clever girl—an ailment she’s probably borrowed from her grandmother.

She turns to the staircase, glaring at me. I’m the first to break our gaze as I climb the rest of the stairs. My thumb presses the button on, then off. I enjoy hearing the parting squeal from downstairs.

In the privacy of my room, I close the door. Needing to feel something solid, I lean my forehead against the back of the door, the wood cool against my skin. Harrison. What have you done?

Why have I brought this girl here?

I thought I was getting my revenge and sending a message to everyone in Italy?—

Steal from me, and I’ll remove what’s most precious to you.

I'm in danger with her presence in my house, her laughter in my ears, and her scent all over me. I feel like I’m back on the ice, sacrificing my body to defend the goal. I’ll do anything not to let that puck slide past the end of my stick. Defend the goal above everything else.

I learned a long time ago not to trust women, not to let them get too close, and not to let the puck into the net.

I move to the dresser, hit play on the speaker, and press my palms against the smooth top. Ella Fitzgerald’s warm voice and soulful, three-octave range typically ease my tension. Now, the melodic sound only makes me crave more of Ophelia. I want to hold her in my arms and slow dance with her.

Fuck! I’m not defending the goal. I’m falling fast, the hard ice welcoming my crash.

I glance in the mirror above the dresser. My hair is still on end from her fingers. I rake my hands through the curls to calm them. I watch my reflection as I slip the tie from my pocket, where I stowed it for this moment. I breathe in the silk, inhaling her scent, and then tuck the tie safely into my top drawer.

I shower to scrub the smell of her off my skin. Instead, the warm, sudsy water reminds me of kissing her. I stroke myself with my slick, soapy hand, imagining her and all the things I’ve already done to her, her scent still in my nostrils.

Only a handful of hours with her, and I’m addicted. She is my drug. One I paid a pretty penny to purchase the privilege of intoxicating myself with.

Throwing on sweatpants and with still-damp hair, I pull back the covers and collapse into bed. Sometime in the night, I grab a pillow, holding it close like a desperate child. I drift off to sleep, images of her in my mind.

Sometime in the night, a shadow at my open door wakes me. At first, I think it’s a dream, but then she steps into a beam of moonlight streaming through the window, and I see her face. She lifts the covers and, suddenly, is beside me. My arms wrap around her, and I can feel her warmth, her beating heart.

Calmness settles over me like a weighted blanket.

When I awake, I inhale her light floral scent from my pillow before opening my eyes. I turn my head, eager to greet her.

The bed is empty.

It was a dream.

Heaviness sinks in my chest. I drag my body upright, raking my hands through my hair. Now I’m imagining her in the night as well as the day.

I’m in grave danger. I’m falling. This time, when I land, I’m not hitting the ice.

This time, I’m hitting rock bottom.

And I fear I’ll be destroyed.