Page 34 of Widow’s Walk (Women of the Mafia #1)

Chapter twenty-nine

Sinclair

W aking up, I expect to be shackled in hell, not resting peacefully in paradise.

My head is pounding, but I can still feel the lushness of the pillow behind my head and the blankets surrounding me as plush as clouds. Everything doused in the emollient scent of the one who ruined me. The vengeful deity that tore through the place, bathed in blood, eyes like hellfire.

The memories of Blackwell coming to save me like he had any right to are fuzzy, and after that, I remember nothing. Between the heavier sedative they injected me with and the adrenal exhaustion, I was pulled under so deep there was nothing.

There’s a pounding in my head like a war drum. Pain blooming behind my eyes as I try to sit up slowly. I feel it when I crinkle my forehead in pain, the stiff bandages. I reach up to tentatively run my fingertips over the coarse fabric covering my forehead.

Oh, right. From bashing my own head in. Worth it .

That’s when everything became distorted. Only fragments of the events happening after that.

Panic sets in as my gaze sweeps the room, the only light coming through the curtains. Where the hell am I? The scent is familiar but alien in every other way.

Fuck .

Did I hallucinate Blackwell?

Fuck .

I was sold, wasn’t I? His familiar scent is just my imagination fucking with me.

I throw off the covers and lurch to my feet. The hammering in my head screams, but I ignore it. My heart palpitates violently in my chest, and my stomach turns in terror.

My gut tells me to run, but my head tells me to fight. I rip open the bedside table’s drawer. Empty. It’s too dark in here. I walk to the curtains and shove them open to help illuminate the room more. Enough to make out some details.

The four-post bed is dark and ornate. A canopy tangled in vines hangs overhead, and the sheets are the color of fresh blood. A facelift to my old bedroom in the attic.

My eyes frantically dart to the door. Deep, masculine voices echo on the other side of it. My stomach knots violently. My eyes sweep wildly around the room, searching for something I can use as a weapon.

I have no recollection of what I grab. Only that it’s blunt and heavy. My chest thumps from my pounding heart as I clutch the object and prepare myself for what’s to come.

The door opens, and my lord steps through. Blackwell, calm and unhurried as he shuts the door behind him. Every emotion instantly bubbles to the surface, boiling. Smoldering from the inside out.

He walks further in the room, towards me, then stops several feet away.

He stands there stoically and unbothered.

The well- kept scruff on his face is scruffier than usual to match his unkempt hair.

He’s dressed down in dark joggers and a gray shirt with the sleeves pushed up to showcase his forearms with sculpted muscles.

He’s so fucking handsome. I hate it. I hate him. How can I see him as anything other than evil?

He pins me with his stare and walks toward me with meticulous steps, and I feel like I can’t breathe. Everything inside me contorts when he steps into the light. Every muscle of mine, powerless.

He’s merciful, stopping, and leaving several feet between us. “How are you feeling?”

“What am I doing here?” My voice has more venom than I knew I had left. “Why did you—how—why—” I stutter and trip over my words. My thoughts scattered like broken glass. I give myself a few breaths before trying again. “Why am I here, Blackwell?”

“You mean, why are you still alive after trying to kill me?” He holds a hand out, silently demanding the makeshift weapon I’m white knuckling like I’m a child.

“If I wanted you dead, you would be dead,” I snarl, slapping the object in his palm.

The corner of his dark lips tick. “Really? Then what was that, huh?”

“It was a message.” I swallow around the nauseous lump in my throat as I sway on my feet, a wave of exhaustion washing over me. My vision tilts, and my knees wobble. He steps forward with a deep frown, and I throw a hand up. “Don’t!”

He stops in his tracks, an alarmed look on his face that he recovers from in the next beat. “You should sit down, Sinclair. You need some food in your stomach and some more rest.”

I chuckle bitterly. “Don’t act like you fucking care.” He doesn’t even flinch, and it’s infuriating. “Why didn’t you just leave me to rot?”

His eyes take on a dangerous look, and he proceeds to close the distance between us. I’m afraid that if I try to shout again, I might puke. “Because you are mine .”

“Yours?” I aim for venom but epically fail. I’m growing weaker by the second. “You were planning to switch me out for someone more worthy. To slaughter me for being cursed with my last name.”

He’s only a couple of feet in front of me now. His chin low as he studies me closely with the tiniest hint of warmth. “Slaughter you ?”

“You and the Bozzellis,” I pant and hold my stomach with my hand as if that’ll help ease back the nausea. “You—I heard you meeting with them. They wanted you to help take out my family. And you agreed. You agreed to everything.”

“I agreed to nothing. You need to sit, Clair.”

He reaches for me and I recoil, screaming. A burst of energy surges through me. “No! You don’t get to touch me!” My chin quivers as despair engulfs me. He gawks at me as if my outburst were unseemly.

He played me. Played me like a fool . He made me think he actually gave a damn. That I was more to him than some cursed bloodline, but all I’ve ever been to him was an asset. Just as disposable as the rest.

“Clair—”

“No!” I scream and shake my head as my eyes blur with fat tears.

He jumps the gap and wraps his arms around me tightly, and the dam bursts.

“No!” I try hitting him, slamming weak fists against his chest. “Get off me! Please.” I try pushing at him, but he doesn’t budge.

I sob so hard I can’t breathe. “Let me go,” I say with a cracked voice through snot and tears.

He holds me through it all. All the years, maybe a lifetime, of anguished pain bleeds from me. The air rushes out of me as I wilt against him. Finally succumbing to the epic meltdown.

Resentment.

Hate.

Fury.

Heartbreak.

Betrayal.

Abandonment.

It storms through me, breaking me until nothing is left but the wreckage. And then the blackness takes back over.

“Clair.” A deep voice stirs me from my torture-induced slumber.

The room is dim and quiet when I open my eyes.

I’m back in bed with puffy eyes and a raw throat.

I turn to meet Blackwell’s bloodshot eyes.

He’s crouched beside me, looking more disheveled than before.

The longer I stare at him, the more the embarrassment begins to creep in, and I can’t look at him.

“You need to eat something,” he insists quietly.

“I need water.” I push myself upright.

I feel his eyes on me for another moment before he stands up and grabs something off the table. “Here.” I glance at the glass of water and the tiny white pills offered on an open palm. My eyes roll up as if asking if he’s serious. “They’re for your pain.”

Suddenly, everything hurts. My head, my throat, every muscle in my body. My instinct is to fight him on this and refuse the medicine. I’ve been through worse physical pain, I’ll live. But at this very moment, I don’t want to fight.

So, I take the pills and down all the water in one go. I put the cup on the nightstand myself, ignoring his hand, and I look around the room. “So, where are we?”

“Our estate.” My eyes widen on him. “You were dragging your feet on furnishing it, so I had the designer start.”

My nostrils flare with a violent breath as I tear my eyes away from him. Our estate? Is he fucking mental?

There’s a polite knock on the door. Blackwell answers without a word.

When he closes the door and returns, he’s carrying a large tray piled high with steaming, hot food.

My eyes lock on the delicious spread, and I swear I start drooling.

It looks sinfully fulfilling. It takes everything in me not to dive in headfirst like a beast crazed with starvation.

“Eat,” he orders, and I choose to ignore his curt tone. He can scream in my ear all he wants right now. All I can see is food . “Then, if you’re up to it later, you can venture out for a look around. See what has been done so far.”

I keep my eyes down on the food, pretending he doesn’t exist. After he lets out a dramatic sigh, he heads for the door.

“Oh, and Sinclair?” I still don’t look at him.

“There’s no point in trying to run. Even if you were to escape, I will find you.

And I will bring you right back here. And it’ll be a long time before I ever let you out of my sight again. ”

I grind my molars until I hear him finally leave, the door clicking softly shut behind him. Then, I fucking dig it.