There are characters like that in my favorite books. Their cruelty is a shield for a dark secret, like a wife hidden in an attic.
I splash water on my face, Leo’s voice echoing in my head. There was something he said. Thinking of it now makes hairs rise on the back of my neck. The feeling of it—the truth of it. With my face buried in a hand towel I can hear it.
It hurts like a motherfucker.
He didn’t say it must hurt.
He said it hurts.
I meet my eyes in the mirror. Now I have two questions about Leo Morelli. Who hurt him, and what is he hiding?
The two things have to be related.
Back in the bedroom, my clothes wait for me on the foot of the bed. The lingerie is missing but there’s a new bra-and-panty set. It all smells like fabric softener. Mrs. Page must have come in and dropped them off. Leo must have told her to do it. It would have been meaner to make me go without clothes.
No solid ground.
I get dressed and go out into the hall, not bothering to stop and listen for anyone else. He’s hiding something. He’s hiding from me. I’m going to find him and ask. A reckless plan? Yes. Yes. But I have a clear head and I want to know, damn it.
Something stops me outside the big door that goes into his bedroom. What did Mrs. Page say? His rooms. A suite, then. I listen at the door. No sound comes from inside, but...
I put a hand on the doorknob. This is as good a place to start looking as any, if it’s unlocked.
It is.
The enormous door opens into an equally enormous room.
Leo’s bedroom.
Vaulted ceilings remind me of a cathedral, and so does the polished darkness here. Gleaming wood paneling. Thick, dark rugs. It feels like a fortress. Leo has his own fireplace, more massive in scale than any of the others. I’m going to ask him about the fireplaces someday. Were they original to the house? It would make sense, if this is a historical property. People needed lots of them for heat. The mantel looks original, if redecorated.
Enormous windows look out over the night-kissed grounds. Distant trees are black silhouettes against a navy sky dotted with stars. Pure, clean snow.
And in front of the windows, the bed.
The bed grabs my attention with both hands. He sleeps here. It’s hard to imagine him sleeping. The strap Leo used on me has been abandoned on the comforter. It’s a few inches from the far side of the mattress, like he threw it there on his way to somewhere else.
I’m so busy looking at it and trying to ignore the pulsing heat between my legs that I don’t hear the water running at first.
In my house, it’s impossible to miss running water. It’s too small a space, and the plumbing is too old. Not like it is here. In Leo’s house, the sound of a shower is barely audible.
Loud enough for me to follow.
A hallway takes me further into the room, past two doors on either side. One reveals a walk-in closet the size of our living room at home. One is closed. I keep going. The hall opens into the front corner of the house. All windows here. All light. A view of the circle drive. There’s a sitting area here with an overstuffed chair. Two books are stacked on a side table nearby.
I don’t look at them.
The rest of the space is a personal library. It dead-ends into a wall with floor-to-ceiling shelves, a writing desk, and an armchair big enough for someone as tall as Leo to be comfortable in.
A pair of doors set into the inner wall must lead to the same space as the closed door from the hall. That’s where the running water is coming from.
Judging by the space carved out by these walls, Leo’s bathroom is bigger than the guest bathroom. It’s bigger than most Constantine bathrooms I’ve seen.
But the size is not the thrill.
The thrill is knowing that Leo is in the shower behind those doors. I wouldn’t go so far as to say he invited me here, but he didn’t not invite me. He had someone leave my clothes in case I got up. He knows I’m in the house.
I take a deep breath and open the first door.
The shower is louder in here, but not visible. What is visible is a soaking tub surrounded by the same stone tiles that dominate the rest of the space, a low bench nearby. The tiles warm my feet. Heated floors. He really does have everything, including a double sink with real cabinet space and an open linen closet stocked with rolled towels and neat bottles of shampoo and conditioner and soap.
An archway leads into the shower room. I’m determined now. I need at least one of his secrets to make sense of him. I can’t do that if I’m hiding in my room. I can’t hide in my room anymore, either. Leo’s forbidden it. My ass smarts under my clothes.
The approach to the archway gives me enough time to be nervous. I reach for the stonework of the arch and move into the opening.
Leo’s shower is the fanciest thing I have ever seen. A wooden bench runs along one glassed-in wall. The other side is taken up with stone shelves, all the angles smoothed out. Designed that way on purpose. The water runs straight down over him, like rain.
My breath stops at the sight. Water runs over his hair and catches in it, diamond-like and glistening. It runs over strong shoulders, strong arms, the arms he braced to keep my legs apart, and down over—
My whole body jolts as his back registers in a series of shocks, each one its own punch to the gut.
His back is a mess of scars. Angry, obvious scars. There are so many that I don’t know where to look first. His hands are in his hair but his shoulders are tense in a way that seems wrong for a shower this nice. My heart turns over, tries to run. It had to have hurt. That many scars, that much pain, it can only be from...what? A car accident?
My mind supplies the answer in a horrified whisper. No. Not an accident. He was whipped.
I must make some sound, because his head comes up.
He turns.
He sees me.
I stumble back a step from the incandescent shock and fury on his face. He’s not hiding any of it, and I was wrong. I was wrong to think he was angry at dinner. I didn’t know what that looked like, and now I do. I wish I didn’t.
“What the fuck are you doing in here?” His body is a storm, and his voice is a lash of lightning on aching flesh.
I put a hand back on the arch for balance. Oh, god, oh, god. “Who did that to you?”
His eyes darken. They’re the color of blackened wood. The color of a house fire. The color of rage.
He storms out of the shower, dripping wet, beautiful and unholy. A scream stops itself in my throat. He fists my hair, digging his fingers in hard, and tips my face up to his. Water drips onto my dress. He’s breathing fast, like he’s been running, and it strikes me even now that he’d be magnificent running. Everything about him is magnificent and fucking terrifying. Water from his hand works its way into my hair.
“You think,” Leo grits his teeth, “you think you can come in here, and what? I’ll strap your ass and lick your clit again? Are you that fucking horny? You’re here to service me, not the other way around.”
He drags me backward through the archway, into the open space. I reach for his fist in my hair on instinct but he bats my hand away, then pulls my face back to his.
“If you’re so hot for it, get down on your knees.”
Leo doesn’t wait for me to answer. Doesn’t wait for anything. He has me by the hair and he pushes me down, onto the floor. I’m a heartbeat and nothing else. I’m fear and a sick, twisted want and nothing else. Leo works his thumb between my teeth and opens my mouth.