I’m surprised at the question. It’s almost childish. But I nod.
She stares up at me like she’s not quite sure whether or not to believe me. But what choice does she have?
“Are we eating in peace?”
She nods. “Fine.”
I straighten and when I turn to take my seat, I hear her mutter Neanderthal under her breath. I smile. Pretend I didn’t hear it as the kitchen door opens and Cerberus enters ahead of Lenore.
6
Scarlett
“Jesus!” I’m startled at the look of the very large and very excited German Shepherd that comes through the door.
Cristiano turns to look at me with a grin on his face—asshole—which is gone the instant the giant hound sniffs me then sets his head on my lap, tail wagging like we’re old friends.
I admit, this is a scary looking dog but they’re usually the sweetest. It’s the little fuckers you have to watch for. I still remember a friend’s yappy poodle chasing me around the dining room table on my first visit to her house when I was barely five.
“Well, hi there. What’s your name, sweetie?” I ask him in a voice that makes Cristiano roll his eyes as I lean down to cuddle the dog.
Cristiano mutters something under his breath. I don’t hear what it is, but he sounds annoyed. Good.
“Cerberus. Here.” He points beside him, but Cerberus nuzzles his nose into my hair behind my ear. “Christ,” he mutters and tugs the dog away. “Sit.”
“Hey!”
The dog whines but sits, just barely, tail still wagging and eyes on me like he wants to play.
“Cerberus?” I ask Cristiano, feeling my eyebrows arch high as the food is laid out on the table. The feast includes roasted chicken, vegetables, potatoes and salad along with a basket of warm rolls.
“You know the name?” Cristiano asks looking surprised.
“I can read, you know.” Arrogant fucker.
He harrumphs.
“You named your dog the guardian dog of the Underworld?”
He ignores me, pouring each of us a glass of wine. Then he places a hunk of chicken on my plate before pointing to the vegetable tray. “Which do you want?”
“It’s pretentious, don’t you think?”
“Which do you want?”
I look at the food, my stomach feeling empty again. “Everything.”
He seems surprised but heaps food onto my plate before serving himself. I pick up my fork and knife but stop.
“Has Noah eaten?”
He picks up the chicken and bites into it confirming my earlier assessment. Neanderthal.
“I have no reason to starve your brother. Eat.”
I do even though I’m not sure I believe him. One step at a time. When I see Noah, I’ll ask him if he’s eaten. If he hasn’t, I’ll figure out a way to convince Cristiano to give him food.
We don’t talk for long minutes. I watch him from the corner of my eye. He eats like he’s not used to eating in public or with company. And apparently, he doesn’t feel any qualms about openly watching me as he does.
Cerberus comes to sit under the table, laying his head on my bare foot. He’s soft and warm and I slip him a piece of chicken.
“Don’t feed him,” Cristiano says.
“Why? Are you afraid he’ll like me more than he likes you?”
“I am his master. It’s not about like.”
I shrug a shoulder and abandon my knife and fork to pick up my chicken with my hands. He studies me, an eyebrow arching as I finish my dish then reach for the other drumstick. I give him a grin and take a huge bite. Maybe if I’m gross enough he’ll realize he doesn’t want to fuck me and let me go instead.
Not likely.
When he’s finished, he wipes his mouth on his napkin. He rises and leaves the table, disappearing into the kitchen without a word.
Cerberus sits up as soon as he’s gone and rests his head on my lap again. I feed him the last of my chicken, worry creeping back in.
For all my bravado, I am afraid. I don’t know what Cristiano wants or what he’ll do to Noah or to me. The chances of this turning out well for either of us are pretty much nil.
When Cristiano returns wiping his hands on a towel, I school my features. I don’t want him to see that I’m anxious. He holds the kitchen door open.
“Cerberus,” he calls and gestures to the kitchen.
Cerberus disappears into the kitchen as Cristiano returns to the table. He eyes my dish.
“You eat a lot.”
“I was on a hunger strike.” And I have to admit, I may have overdone it tonight. I put my hand on my full belly.
“Why?” he asks.
“To protest my wedding.”
“A hunger strike is ineffective unless your life holds some value. It only weakens you.”
“Sometimes whether or not you eat is the only thing you have control over. I guess you wouldn’t know anything about that since you’re probably usually the one on the other side of things.”
“You don’t know anything about me.” He watches me for a long minute. “What did you hope to achieve?”
“Nothing, actually. I knew it wouldn’t achieve anything. Wouldn’t change anything. I know my brothers,” I pause, remembering. “Knew them.”
“Mm.”
“I sat and I ate. Can I see Noah now?” I ask, taking care not to sound like I’m making a demand.
“Finish your wine.” He finished his and two more glasses as we ate. I’ve only sipped mine.
I pick up my glass and drain it. He raises his eyebrows as I set my glass down and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.
Cristiano shakes his head at my bad manners, stands and pulls my chair out. I find this strange because I didn’t think he had any manners himself.
I stand and follow him to a bathroom. He holds the door open and switches on the light. It’s beautiful inside, like the rest of what I’ve seen of the house. Italian style with elaborately painted walls, some with frescoes depicting scenes from Greek mythology. It all looks like it’s been touched up recently. Even this tiny bathroom has a vaulted ceiling, similar to the rest of the first floor.
“You eat like an animal,” he says. “Wash your hands.”
“I only mimicked my host.”
“If I’m your host you imply you’re my guest.”
I wash my hands and switch off the water before grabbing a towel and turning to him. “Your captive then. Is that better? Call a spade a spade, a devil a devil.”
“You come from a family of devils.”
He’s right. I do. So, I don’t answer. Instead, I follow him through the large, open living room with its elegant, Venetian style furnishings and glance at all of the paintings we pass. I notice his eyes linger on one in particular. A woman in her late twenties. She’s beautiful.
“Who is that?”
“My mother,” he says without turning around.
His mother.
She was executed with the rest of his family by my brothers. By the man I was to marry.
I shudder with a sudden chill. If he notices he doesn’t say anything as we proceed into the decidedly cooler and darker corridor, the smell of must already present here. It’s the one that leads to the cells. I remember being dragged up here.