Page 37 of Where Quiet Hearts Scream (Dark Hearts #3)

S erafina

After Viola has silently helped me to patch up the door so it actually closes and locks again, I ignore the alarmed expression on her face and head up to my room.

I slip out of the dress and carefully remove the jewelry Andreas gave me before dinner. I glance up and catch my reflection in the mirror. I look exhausted and confused—exactly the way I feel.

The evening has been an ordeal. First, the hideous governor stroking my thigh under the table. Then, his equally hideous wife insulting me in the restroom. Both of them made me feel cheap and dirty. Worthless.

I still don’t know how to interpret Andreas’ reaction when I told him what had happened and what I thought he’d wanted.

Well, it’s clear he isn’t pimping me out—that’s reassuring.

But the fury he was barely holding in confused me.

Why would he be so angry? Surely Andreas can explain to the governor there’s been a misunderstanding and maybe there’s another way the deal could be beneficial for him.

They’re grown men—they’ll be able to come to an agreement.

I watch as my face relaxes in the mirror. Andreas will figure it out. As I’m learning more each time I see him, he’s an exceptionally intelligent man—he knows what he wants, and he knows how to get it.

I keep repeating that to myself as I wash my face, climb into bed and drift off to sleep.

An impatient knock at the door of my bedroom wakes me abruptly. I glance at the clock—it’s eight a.m. I must have been in a deep slumber.

There’s another set of knocks, faster this time. “Signora? Signora, are you awake?”

“Viola?” I must be groggy because who else would it be?

“May I come in? I have your sister calling.”

Since I still haven’t been granted a cell phone of my own, I only get to speak to members of my family through Viola’s various cell phones.

I sit upright. “Yes, of course, come in.”

Viola enters the room in a hurry and hands me her phone. “It sounds urgent.”

I take the phone and press it to my ear. “Hello? ”

“Oh Sera, thank God you’re okay.”

“Trilby?” I rub my eyes, still waking up.

“Yes, it’s me. I needed to know you were okay.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” I frown.

“Where’s Andreas?” she continues, ignoring my question.

“I don’t know. Why?”

“Were you with him?”

I stare at Viola who’s watching me anxiously. “When?”

“Last night, of course.”

“Yes, we went to a business dinner with Governor Grayson. Why?”

“Oh my God,” she whispers. “You were there when it happened?”

“When what happened?” I glance again at Viola.

“Sera, it’s all over the news…”

I’m running out of patience. “What’s all over the news? Trilby, will you please cut to the chase? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Governor Grayson is dead.”

I clap a hand over my mouth. “What?” I whisper through my fingers. “Grayson is dead? How?”

Viola lifts a hand and presses it to her chest. This must be news to her too.

“He was shot. One bullet between the eyes. His wife found him bleeding out on their yacht in the early hours of this morning.”

My voice shakes chaotically as I breathe. “Oh my God.”

“If Andreas comes home, can you please pass on the message that Cristiano needs to speak to him. He isn’t answering his calls.”

“I will,” I say quietly, then I hang up the phone and flick on the T.V.

The newscaster is speaking with a solemn voice and the camera zooms in on brightly colored police cordoning. I stare at footage of the yacht currently filled with forensic investigators and the FBI, unable to believe it’s the same the one I ate dinner on last night.

“He’s dead,” I murmur. “Governor Grayson is dead.”

Viola takes my hand. “Do you think this has anything to do with Andreas slamming the door off its hinges?”

Oh. My. God. A part of me thinks Grayson’s murder has everything to do with Andreas’ anger last night, but another part of me refuses to believe it.

“I don’t know.”

I tear my eyes from the screen to look at the phone in my hand. “I want to call my husband.”

Viola swipes the screen and presses a number, then nods.

What was it Trilby had said? Andreas isn’t answering calls?

He answers after one ring.

“Viola. How is she?”

I drag in a breath. “It’s not Viola, it’s me.”

Viola gulps loudly and I rest a reassuring hand on her arm. “I made her give me the phone. ”

He doesn’t speak but I hear him breathe deeply on the other end.

“I need you to come home.”

He hesitates. “I?—”

“I’m not asking, Andreas. I’m your wife. Come. Home.”

I hand the phone back to Viola who puts it back to her ear as she leaves the room. I can hear her muttering something into it but she doesn’t return.

I shower quickly and dress in a T-shirt and denim shorts. I don’t care if my scars are on show. I feel more comfortable in my skin than I ever have, and besides, no one is going to see me except Viola and Andreas. I stand at the window and wait.

When his car rolls up to the house, my heartbeat picks up. He’s changed his clothes since last night and is wearing a fresh suit, his black hair gleaming beneath the sun. I half-wonder how he isn’t boiling in this heat.

He enters the house and I hear him exchange a few words with Viola before climbing the stairs. Eventually a firm knock sounds at the door. I turn my back to the window and rest my spine against it.

“Come in.”

The door opens slowly, then Andreas appears. He looks taller, broader, even more intimidating than usual, and my stupid heart flutters.

He stands in the doorway, his eyes dragging over me. They start at my face. When they’re content I’m not angry or afraid, they move down over my T-shirt, to my waist, my hips. Then my thighs—my scars. He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth before raising his gaze back to mine.

“Come inside and close the door.”

“Viola knows what I do,” he says, but steps inside anyway and closes the door.

“That’s fine, but I want to speak to you alone.”

He walks into the room, every step sending my heart galloping a little faster. His body heat seems to draw me in like a magnet and I push myself away from the window. He stops carefully, about three feet in front of me.

I lift my chin to look directly into his eyes. “Was it you?”

His eyes search mine—he knows exactly what I’m talking about. “Yes.”

Instead of feeling terrified that my husband just admitted to murdering a man in cold blood, my chest blooms with something that feels a little bit like pride. The governor made me feel like a piece of meat. I wouldn’t say he deserved to die but he deserved some sort of rich punishment.

“Why?” That one word comes out like a long breath.

He takes another step toward me, closing the gap. I can feel the air pulsing between us.

“Because you’re mine . And no one touches what’s mine.”

He speaks in clipped syllables, with a sharpness that should be reserved for knives, not words. His body bears down on me, making me feel small and fragile, even though I know I’m getting a little stronger every day and less afraid of him.

“But, what about the deal? You still need him—or someone—to sign.”

One more step brings his chest to mine, his angular face lowered until it’s all I can see. “ You come before any deal.”

His words slide through my ears like warm honey wending its way down my throat, through my stomach, into my pelvis, where it collects between my thighs.

I take a breath in, filling my nostrils with his musky scent.

My head feels light as I continue to bend my neck backward so I can see his eyes.

They are deep and cavernous, dancing with shadows.

I don’t understand. He married me so he could take Boston. From the little I know of his plans, it seemed as though this project was pivotal. Why would he jeopardize that?

As if he can read my mind, he offers more clarity. “You’re my wife .” He lets those words linger, hotly. Then he softens his voice, his breath brushing against my lips. “And you’ve been through enough .”

My neck aches from looking up at him but I can’t remove my gaze. His full lips mouthing those predatory words has me completely mesmerized.

With his face still lowered, his breaths continue to brush against my lips. They part and fall open, and my eyelids flutter shut. I’m no longer in control of my reactions to him and I suddenly know what I want.

The recollection of that kiss on the day of our wedding skips to the front of my mind.

The way he pressed his mouth against me until it hurt, the way his hand splayed possessively across my shoulder blades drawing me to him with an escaped breath.

It felt animalistic, as though he couldn’t hold himself back, and I want that again.

I couldn’t admit to myself at the time that I enjoyed feeling overpowered like that, by him. But now that he’s spent weeks providing all the right care for me, keeping his distance until I’m healed enough to handle him, and now that he’s killed for me… I don’t care who knows.

I think I want my husband.

His breaths are hot and short, a pained groan forming at the base of his throat. Just when I think he’s going to close the half inch gap and bring his lips onto mine, the air around me grows cold. I ping my eyes open to see him take a few steps backward.

“Are you leaving?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Where are you going?”

“The city.”

“When will I see you again? And don’t say ‘soon’. That didn’t turn out too well last time.”

A corner of his lip curls upward and I realize I haven’t made him smile since before he gatecrashed my sister’s wedding.

“Tomorrow. ”

My eyes widen. I wasn’t expecting to see him again so soon.

“We have another political dinner.”

My heart drops a fraction. “Won’t everyone suspect it was you who killed Grayson?”

“Let me be the one to worry about that.”

He says this with such pragmatism I almost find him reasonable. “Um… okay.”

Turning to leave, he stops himself halfway and coasts his gaze over me once more. “Wear something demure… please.”

“I’m not sure I have anything dem—” I start.

“Then buy something,” he clips. Then he flings a black charge card onto the bed and stalks out of the room.