Watching Donatello Vanici in the throes of madness should draw laughter from me. Not sobs. Not guilt.
His pain shouldn’t hurt this much.
Closing my eyes against him, I try to examine my emotions. This man betrayed me. Abandoned me. Hurt me in ways I never thought possible to hurt.
Until now.
I could always comfort myself with the idea that what I’m feeling is jealousy. In the end, Mischa wrought this revenge, not me.
My pounding heartbeat resonates through my eardrums as if to counter that lie. For the same reason, I didn’t kill him at the hotel, and the reason why I came here in the middle of the night…
I’m here because he always had a hold over me.
And now… I’m at his mercy.
Shivers wrack my body as he stirs, groaning. My cheeks flame as the masculine sound ripples through me, raising goosebumps over my skin. The only other man I’ve ever been this close to is, well him.
His knee is between my legs, his hands clasped behind my back, locking me to him, chest to chest with his mouth against my throat.
He mumbles something unintelligible, and I jump as sturdy warmth brushes my shoulder.
“You,” he croaks in a tone I barely recognize.
Shock startles me into opening my eyes, and I tremble at the sight that meets them. A nightmare would be preferable to this—Donatello so close. He’s awake, his eyes unfocused and wild, his breath tinged with a sickening amount of alcohol.
And lighter fluid. We both reek of the cloying substance.
“You can’t be here,” he tells me, his voice hoarse. “You aren’t real…”
He sounds so convinced. So…angry—at himself for daring to envision me, this corrupted version of his precious Safy. Frowning, he runs his thumb beneath my nose and frowns. Red paints the tip, and he shakes his head with a hollow laugh. “This blood isn’t real.” But confusion shatters the confidence in his voice.
I’m hurt, marred with the physical injuries inflicted by him. My throat aches, bruised by his touch. My nose smarts, and I can taste the hint of blood on my tongue. Fear should embolden me to resist him now. Fight.
Not stare.
Like a man utterly lost, he shakes his head, his nostrils flaring as he looks down, eyeing our close, entwined bodies. Something dark crosses his gaze, tightening the line of his mouth, exaggerating the wrinkles crinkling the skin. My breath catches, watching the nuances of his expression shift and change.
Gone is the wild pain that made my heart ache in the face of it.
Bit by bit, the focus returns to those piercing eyes, honing them into narrowed slits. Abruptly, he withdraws from me and stands. Without his heat, I’m freezing, my teeth chattering.
“You’re not real,” he says, breathing heavily.
But with every breath of air to enter his lungs, I know that he can sense the same pungent odors that I can—things far too real to exist in a dream.
Or a nightmare.
Blood.
Tears.
Lighter fluid.
Something in my belly unfurls, urging me to move. Run!
I barely twitch a muscle before his hand flies out, latching onto a fistful of my hair. Grunting, he drags me to him, heedless of the pain blazing across my skull. Tears sting my eyes, but I’m alarmed to realize that they never stopped falling.
Blurred, his shape looms above me, his lips a pinkish smear moving, his voice a growl.
“You aren’t real,” he insists. “But if you are…” He tugs me to my feet so swiftly stars dance across my vision. I stagger, desperate to find any traction over the cold wood beneath my feet.
He’s unmoving, but as my vision clears, I’m more confused than ever.
Why am I here, facing this man?
Because, whoever he is…
He is not Donatello Vanici.
Bloodshot dark eyes glare into my own, slicing through me with the ease of a knife. That mouth, composed of lips I used to easily goad into a smile, flatten against me, and I suppose he lets me go more out of shock than mercy.
“Safiya.”
Hearing that name stings—again, there’s so much reverence in it.
Lowering his gaze to the floor, he sighs. “Willow Stepanova. But no,” he says, shaking his head. Turning his back to me, he laughs, and the sound is chilling.
It’s a madman’s wail.
“Willow Stepanova wouldn’t come to me, no. Unless it’s to gloat. Your father got your revenge, didn’t he? Didn’t he?”
I flinch in the face of his shout—that brutal baritone I’ve only heard once before as he bellowed at a man who made a mistake that cost him money.
“Is Mischa waiting for me, outside, huh?” He grabs my arm and storms into the foyer so quickly I have to stumble to keep up. Still laughing, he throws open the front door, glowering into the pale dawn light.
“Come out, come out, Mischa!” He shouts, hauling me after him down the front steps.
It’s a twisted reversal of our first meeting. That day he helped me up these very steps, his touch comforting.
Not restraining. Now, his nails dig in uncaringly, no doubt drawing blood as he hunts for enemies among the trees swaying in the morning breeze.
“Come out!”
Despite how loudly he demands as much, no one comes to meet him.
He wrenches me around to face him. “Where is he? Waiting to take his shot?” Shoving me back, he steps forward, his arms outstretched. “Take your fucking shot, you son of a bitch! I’m ready.”
My pulse surges—I’m terrified. But not for the reasons I should be. I can hear the honesty in his voice. The desperation.
He’s not cockily boasting.
He’s begging.
One touch—I don’t even realize I’m doing it, swiping my fingers along his forearm.
He jumps violently, whirling to face me. His constricted expression reveals that he would prefer to take a bullet from a gun. Anything but have me touch him like that.
Like I don’t hate him.
He snatches my arm, pulling me against him. Our chests slam together as he forces eye contact, staring me down. Whatever he finds in my gaze makes him scoff. Then utter a cry in between a groan and something more primal. Guttural.
His free hand ghosts my cheek, his thumb tracing the curve of my mouth. Each stroke of his thumb applies more pressure as understanding shapes his exhausted features. It’s like watching a corpse come back to life.
Fire ignites in those fathomless irises. Color returns to his cheeks, giving his golden skin more definition, and finally…
His finger quivers against my skin, and he releases me.
Before I can think to move, he grabs me again, capturing my waist in both hands. In a quick motion, he hauls me over his shoulder, marching across the property.
I’m too stunned to react the way I should. My hand curls into a fist that lands harmlessly against his back, but by then, he’s already approaching a car parked alongside the old garage.
The front is horribly dented, the windshield cracked, but he opens the driver’s side door without hesitation and finds the release for the trunk. He carries me toward it, and I struggle, but when I see what lies in the bed of the compartment, I go limp, my lips parted around a gasp I can’t voice.
Huge blue eyes meet mine, glazed with fear. They stare from a small face, shrouded by tousled black curls.
It’s like looking into a mirror. One that reflects the worst-case scenario and taunts me with it.