She turns her face to me. “Newsflash. I’m never fun.”
“No, I’m getting that. You’re a depressing drunk.” I gather her in my arms.
She smacks my chest but it’s like butterfly wings fluttering against me.
I smile. It’s kind of cute. “Give Fury a little whiskey and she turns into a little kitten.” I lift her up and carry her to the bed, draw the blankets back to lay her down.
“I’m not drunk and I’m not a little kitten.” Her eyelids flutter closed hair splayed out around her. She’s taken it out of the braid, and it’s got some wave to it. A thick dark mass on the pristine white pillow.
I walk into the bathroom for a washcloth, running it under the tap to wet it before returning to the bedroom. She’s in exactly the same position as I left her. I can’t help but shake my head.
This is not how I expected tonight to go.
When I touch the cloth to her cheek, she startles, gasping, eyes blinking open, hands coming to capture my wrist. On guard. I get the feeling she’s always on guard, like me.
“Relax. I’m just cleaning off the blood.”
She studies my eyes, tilts her head a little and peers closer. “Your eyes are sad.”
I don’t say anything. What can I say? I just watch her, this confusing girl.
She reaches up to touch my temple, the scar there, a divot of missing skin.
“My brothers did this.”
Again, I remain silent.
She shifts her gaze to my chest again, my arms, touching the scars there. The two more distinct ones are where the bullets penetrated my chest and side. I’m used to it, but I remember the shock I felt when I’d first seen them and imagine her reaction must be somewhat similar.
When she looks back at me, she looks resigned. “No.”
“No what?”
“I didn’t fuck him. I’ve never fucked him, and I swear I’ll throw myself out of a window if it ever comes to that.”
“That why they put you in the tower? The bars on the windows?”
She smiles, eyes heavy-lidded. “I’m sleepy.”
“Half a bottle of whiskey will do that to you.” I walk back into the bathroom to drop the washcloth in the hamper. When I get back into the bedroom, she’s rolled onto my side of the bed, her head resting on my pillow, hands tucked beneath her cheek.
I pull the sheets back and consider what to do about her clothes. I decide to undo the tie, which is pretty tightly knotted.
She makes a sound, her face contorting.
“Shh. Relax.”
She does. Just a harmless little kitten now.
I push the sweatshirt up a little to get the knot undone, see a glimpse of smooth skin, her belly button. I look at her face. She’s pretty. Very pretty.
And out cold.
It’s what she wanted. To not remember me touching her. To not feel the pain.
Do I believe that she hasn’t fucked Rinaldi? I get the feeling if she did, it wasn’t by choice. The thought makes me grit my teeth. Makes my blood run cold.
I draw the blanket back and climb in. I tug her closer, so she doesn’t fall off the bed. At least I tell myself that’s why. She rolls over, her back to me, ass against my dick which my dick registers as an invitation.
I groan, adjust myself and learn something about Scarlett De La Cruz a moment later.
She snores. It’s a quiet little snore. Mostly. It makes me smile.
Nothing but a harmless little kitten.
But when she nuzzles against me again, I don’t think about how cute the snore is or how warm she is or how good her ass feels against my dick because, fuck me, it’s going to be long night.
8
Scarlett
I wake to a violent pounding in my head. I groan, turn over, burying my face in the pillow, the unfamiliar feel of it—mine is softer.
And mine doesn’t smell like him.
My eyelids fly open and bright sunlight makes my head hurt worse. Two days now that I wake with a headache. This one I did to myself.
Whiskey.
Too much of it.
It takes me a long minute to get up the courage to look behind me. But when I do, I find the bed empty and realize what that sound is. The shower.
He did sleep here, I realize. I still see the indentation from his head on the pillow and when I reach to touch it, it’s still warm.
I wanted this, right? To be passed out when he touched me? So, I wouldn’t remember it.
What do I remember? Not much.
Lifting the comforter, I peer underneath and am surprised to find I’m still wearing his clothes. The tie is gone, and the pants are down around my ankles, but I don’t feel anything. I would feel it if he’d touched me. I’ve had sex before. I know how much it hurts.
No. That wasn’t sex, I guess. That was me being fucked in every sense of the word.
Nausea at the memory almost makes me forget about my headache. I manage to shove it away though. I’ve gotten better at that but I’m still not quite there. Not to the point of not feeling anything when I remember. I wish I could forget it. Have the memories wiped clean.
So maybe Cristiano didn’t fuck me while I was out.
I reach down and tentatively touch myself. It would be sticky or at least the blood would have crusted. Men leave a mess. But I feel nothing.
The bathroom door opens, snagging my attention.
“Morning,” he says when he sees me.
I draw the covers up and sit up a little, scratching my head, trying to pat down my hair. I can be a pretty wild sleeper. I know what I look like first thing in the morning. And it’s not pretty.
Not that I want to be pretty for him.
“How’s your head?” he asks, adjusting the tuck of the towel at his hips, drawing my eye to how low slung it is. To the V of his belly. The line of dark hair that goes from his navel to disappear beneath the towel.
My face heats up and I open my mouth to speak but find it’s gone dry. I clear my throat. “It’s fine.” I really want to brush my teeth.
“I’m sure,” he says with a grin and gestures to the nightstand. “That’s not expired. And you’ll want to drink all of that water.”
I look over, see the container of aspirin and the big bottle of water. “Did you…” I stop.
He raises an eyebrow. “Did I what?” He opens a drawer at the dresser to take out a pair of briefs. He drops the towel.
“Can you at least warn me?” It takes me a split second to avert my gaze but it’s too late. He sees.
He grins. “Too much for you, Little Kitten?”
Little Kitten.
Give Fury a little whiskey and she turns into a little kitten.
I make myself meet his gaze. “I’ve seen bigger and better,” I lie.
“I doubt that.” He chuckles and walks into the closet to return a moment later, zipping up a pair of slacks. “And I’ve just figured out how to tell when you’re lying.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Your voice gets higher.”
“Fuck you.”
“Well, that was the plan, but you passed out.”
So, that confirms that we didn’t fuck, right? I turn my attention to the aspirin, busying myself twisting the lid as I remember that my pants were around my ankles. “Why were my pants off then?”