Eulogy

  She exhaled, her eyes darting between my mouth and chin. What the hell. I swept in for a kiss, surprised to find her eager in my arms as she made a little moan against my tongue.

  This, this is what we could do for three days straight.

  Even if it was just kissing.

  I would take it.

  Because it made me feel desired.

  Alive.

  I released her before I took her on the kitchen counter again then nodded to the stove. “Think you can handle this while I make coffee?”

  She gave me a thumbs-up. “Got it.”

  We moved silently around each other, her humming, me listening, my ears straining to hear more of her pretty voice. It was soothing, the music she hummed.

  A few times I pretended to busy myself when really I was just standing there dumbstruck while she cooked.

  Normally, I would take over. I didn’t trust other people in the kitchen.

  But she looked so happy.

  Like she belonged.

  In this home.

  More than I did.

  And that was when I noticed it… I tilted my head and then gave it a shake. Something about her felt familiar. I squinted. Something was… the same as something else.

  Her bottom lip?

  Top?

  She tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear and smiled down at the French toast.

  Her ears. Is that what looked familiar? Or maybe it was just her entire profile?

  I was losing my mind.

  Probably from the high body count and lack of sleep. I poured us cups of coffee and went to sit.

  Minutes later, I had a plate of French toast in front of me, but she had nothing in front of her.

  “You don’t like French toast?” I asked, confused.

  “Oh, I love it!” she exclaimed, grabbing the maple syrup and holding it up.

  I nodded, still frowning, as she made a fucking design on my plate and then added a few sprinkles of powdered sugar around the edges.

  I stared down at my plate.

  Pissed.

  Just pissed at the world.

  Pissed at a dead wife who never really ate what I cooked her, much less shared breakfast with me.

  My hands shook as I reached for my fork, only to put it back down again and cleared my throat.

  Why did it always come back to my hate?

  I couldn’t let go.

  I wanted to.

  I wanted to eat the damn French toast without tasting hate on my tongue.

  I thought I gripped the fork again, but somehow it clattered out of my hand and onto the ground.

  And then Luciana, with her wide, fear-filled eyes, was standing in front of me, fresh fork in hand. She slowly cut a piece for me and then held it in front of my mouth.

  Feeding. Me.

  A gesture you make to a toddler, and I was ready to fall to my knees and sob. To confess it all and beg her to make it stop.

  Make it fucking stop.

  “Open.” Her voice shook.

  She was just as petrified as I was.

  She, afraid of me.

  Me, afraid of her.

  I was sick with it.

  The fear, the hate, the longing.

  I bit down on the fork and tasted the goodness, the sweetness of her gesture and the meaning behind it.

  “I hope I didn’t do something…” She gulped. “…wrong.”

  “Sometimes,” my voice rasped, “people have stronger reactions to something done right.”

  She licked her lips.

  I pulled her into my lap. Her legs dangled on either side of me, and I didn’t care. I didn’t care that I was starving.

  I didn’t care that I told her I wouldn’t touch her.

  I didn’t care that I was full of hate.

  Anger.

  I didn’t care about anything but showing my appreciation.

  Showing her the thank you I’d always wanted to show, but never had a chance to.

  I kissed her mouth, took it in mine and savored her taste, and then pressed my head to her chest. “Thank you for making breakfast.”

  It sounded so stupid, saying it out loud.

  “Chase?” Her voice sounded afraid.

  “Yeah.” I didn’t move.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Maybe.”

  My body shook a bit as she ran her hands down my tense shoulders and then turned my face to hers. “When was the last time someone took care of you?”

  I didn’t answer.

  Because I had none.

  Because the answer was never.

  Because the answer was pathetic.

  She nodded. Like she knew my silence was all she would get, and she was okay with it. And then she reached for the fork and fed me again.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  “I never thought I’d see the day that I would choose wine over vodka.”

  — Ex-FBI Agent P

  Luciana

  I wasn’t a violent person.

  I think that had already been established tenfold, but I’d never before experienced such a violent need to physically maim someone as I did right then, feeding Chase.

  His eyes were glazed over like he was in a trance with each bite he took. His hands braced my hips, fingers digging into my skin like he was afraid that any second I was either going to disappear or run away.

  And no matter how many times I locked eyes with him, trying to reassure him that I wasn’t going away, he still looked…

  Terrified.

  And that was when I realized I’d been mistaking his anger. He was full of darkness, yes, but that darkness wasn’t just lashing out in anger.

  It was a devastating sadness.

  Mistrust.

  Debilitating fear.

  I sucked in a breath.

  “What?” He swallowed the last bite I’d given him. His head tilted to the side as if he was trying to figure me out. Piercing blue eyes raked over me like a caress; his full lips pressed into a smile that made my chest ache. “Do I have syrup on my chin?” He wiped it.

  I shook my head as I felt tears fill my eyes.

  “Luc…” He pressed his hands to my face gently, as if I was precious to him, which made it even worse.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

  He frowned. “I don’t understand?”

  “I could kill her.” I gasped after I said it out loud, and horrified, I covered my face with my hands.

  He went completely still beneath me.

  Great, Luciana, just when things are getting better, you tell him you want to kill the only woman he’s ever really loved.

  It slipped.

  The anger.

  And after seeing his sadness, I just… I wanted it to go away, but she’d done something unfathomable to one of the most beautiful men I’d ever met, one of the most protective, overbearing, beautiful men.

  I was sick to my stomach.

  I tried to pry myself away from his body, but his arms held me still on his lap.

  His breathing was slow, intense; his chest rose and fell like it took effort for him to remember to inhale.

  Had I finally pushed him too far?

  “Look at me,” he said in a harsh whisper.

  Tears filled my eyes as I very slowly pulled my hands down and stared into his sharp eyes.

  “I wouldn’t wish that on my greatest enemy, let alone someone I consider a friend.” He looked away as if he was trying to find the right thing to say then lifted me off his lap and grabbed my hand.

  I tried not to shake, but it was hard.

  He led me up the stairs and down the hall into two double doors.

  I gasped when he opened them.

  It was the most massive suite I’d ever seen in my entire life; that one suite was bigger than ten of my bedrooms growing up. It didn’t have any furniture except for a mattress and a chair over in the corner, plus about three suitcases, all Louis Vuitton.

  The closet was full of clothes.

 
Not his.

  Hers.

  I suddenly found it hard to breathe as he walked into the bathroom then came out with a baseball bat.

  Logic told me he had a point to make.

  But I’d seen what he could do.

  What he did do.

  And maybe I didn’t trust him as much as I thought, because he was holding the bat as if he was about to do something with it, and I was the only person in that room he could aim it at.

  Or so I thought.

  He flipped it over and handed it to me.

  I took it with shaking hands. “Why do I have a baseball bat in my hands? And why would you keep one in the bathroom?”

  His lips tilted into a smile. “I’m gonna tell you a story, and every time you get pissed off, you get to hit something. Just make sure you aim for a wall. I don’t want to have to explain to someone how I got my ass handed to me by someone half my size.”

  “I’m not half your size.”

  He smirked again. “Whatever you say.”

  I scowled and held the bat. “About downstairs, I didn’t mean—”

  He held up his hand and started talking. “It was an arranged marriage.”

  My eyebrows shot up.

  “I loved Trace,” he admitted, sparking so much jealousy in my chest I had to fight to suck in air. “Or thought I did. Long story short, I don’t feel that way about her now, so you can stop being jealous.”

  “I wasn’t—”

  “You were,” he said with confidence.

  I looked down at my bare feet; they were dwarfed by the size of his in his black boots.

  “I married her to protect her. She was the first female boss and knew she would need the protection of my name, my money, my body.”

  I gripped the bat, hating the story already, hating that my body felt like it was on fire when I barely knew the guy.

  It was a lie to myself.

  That I barely knew him.

  I forced myself to believe it as he kept talking.

  “That day, on my wedding day, when I said my vows to Mil, I knew, no matter what she did to me, no matter what the world did to us, I would die before letting anything happen to her. I didn’t love her, not yet, but it didn’t matter, because I made a vow, and I took it seriously. Eventually, I fell for her. I fell so fucking hard that my head spun.” He stopped the story and I tilted my head toward him. “Hit something.”

  I wasn’t an angry person.

  But I was angry now.

  I slammed the bat into the side of the nearest wall, chest heaving. He came up behind me, put his hands on my shoulders, then ran them down my arms slowly.

  I felt each finger, each press against my skin as he whispered in my ear, “I gave her my heart.”

  I trembled.

  “My soul.”

  I hated her.

  “And when I asked for the same…” His voice hitched. “…she gave me excuses.”

  I leaned back against him.

  “She gave me all she was capable of giving,” he continued. “But it wasn’t enough. I was never enough.”

  He pulled back as I slammed the bat into the wall three more times, using everything I had. Cracks appeared, my hands grew sweaty as I gripped the bat with fury, waving it over and over again at the white wall as if it was her face, as if it would take away the anger I felt in my soul.

  “She fucked me,” he spat, “and betrayed me… the same day she had a miscarriage.”

  I could taste his anger.

  “The same day she told me she was glad we weren’t bringing a child into the world.”

  I gripped the bat so hard my fingers hurt. Tears filled my eyes.

  “I wasn’t greedy, Luc,” he whispered. “Three things I wanted out of this life, only three.” His mouth was near my neck, his nose nuzzled behind my ear as he whispered, “One, to love and be loved unconditionally.”

  I closed my eyes.

  “Two…” His voice lowered. “…to have a family.”

  A solitary tear ran down my cheek.

  “Three—” His voice caught. “—to never…” He hesitated. “…to never outlive my wife.”

  The bat clattered against the wood floor.

  “So, when you say you could kill her, know that it’s probably one of the nicest things anyone’s said to me in the past eight months.”

  “How so?” I finally found my voice.

  “Because…” He slowly turned me in his arms. “It means someone gets my pain, my rage. It means someone didn’t look at me as a man they needed to control…” He pressed a kiss to my lips. “…but someone who has every reason in the world to be unleashed.”

  I licked my lips and said the only thing that was left to be said, “Listen to me very carefully.” I gripped him by the front of the shirt, our eyes locked, as tension pounded between us. “She didn’t deserve you.”

  His kiss was swift, endless, as I opened my mouth to him and felt my body release every ounce of anger, letting him kiss it away, right along with his. He tasted like coffee, his mouth searing as his full lips massaged and kneaded. I tasted his sadness and pushed it away with my tongue, fought it with my body as he lifted me against him and pressed me against the wall I’d just attacked with the bat. My body slid roughly against his chest as I hooked my legs around his waist. He nipped my lips, bringing his head back before attacking my mouth again with his.

  I’d never been kissed like this before.

  Never felt such want from another human being that it stole my breath away and made my heart clamor in my chest like an addict.

  I reached for his shirt again, needing something to hold onto, then grabbed his shoulder, pulling him closer as he spread my legs wide around his hips.

  Every time we touched it was electric.

  As if someone had lit a match and poured gasoline on it.

  And every time, I gave in.

  Because I couldn’t help myself.

  But also because I recognized something in his eyes, in the way he kissed, as if he was afraid it would be his last.

  His kiss said, “Love me, look at me, desire me, want me.”

  His kiss was like my heartbeat, the thoughts I’d had every day growing up.

  I’d always heard that souls recognized each other, and I knew in that moment, regardless of his feelings, his anger — mine recognized his.

  And wanted.

  Ached.

  Needed.

  I sighed against his mouth, ending the kiss, but he didn’t stop. He kissed down my neck, alternating between biting and kissing — as if he couldn’t stop; as if self-control wasn’t in his vocabulary.

  I slid my hand beneath his shirt.

  He stilled.

  Our eyes met again.

  “Sorry,” I whispered, mouth swollen.

  “For kissing me back?” His chest heaved.

  “No.” Our foreheads touched. “I’m just…” Why was I trying not to cry in this guy’s arms? I should be kissing him, not crying into his shirt. “I’m just so sorry.”

  “I thought we talked about wasting tears.” He kissed my lips softly, so softly my heart ached with it.

  “And I thought I told you I got to choose who I wasted them on.”

  His licked his lips, sucking in the bottom, making my heart race more than it already was. “Cosi bella.”

  I shivered.

  Chase angry was sexy.

  Chase sad… still sexy.

  Chase standing… still so sexy.

  Chase speaking Italian?

  I might not survive.

  I wasn’t used to compliments, not by men like him. I closed my eyes and turned into his hand, then pressed mine against it, just keeping it there.

  Something told me if I could keep holding on, he would never let go. My heart dropped at the thought of losing his touch.

  “Luc.”

  I opened my eyes.

  He shook his head back and forth like he was confused. “Another lifetime… and I would have given you everything
instead of her.”

  “In another lifetime,” I whispered sadly. “And to think, I’d take it all now.”

  He dropped his hand as if my truth was too much for him to handle then set me on my feet.

  The doorbell rang.

  Without a backward glance, he walked out of the room as I slowly sunk to the floor.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  “He wasn’t falling for it, and time was running out. Good thing I had a plan B.”

  — Ex-FBI Agent P

  Chase

  I tugged my hair with both hands as I stomped down the hall. What was it about this woman that had me tied up in knots? That had me doubting my only task, my only purpose.

  When I was kissing her, I had a thought so fleeting, a thought beyond three days from now, a thought about holidays, a house that wasn’t haunted, spring. They all came in rapid succession.

  Luciana smiling down at me.

  And me feeling free enough to smile back without wondering if the smile was real, or if there was something else lingering behind it.

  Three days, and I was already doubting myself because of a kiss? Because of sex?

  Or was it just her?

  I couldn’t tell the difference between my attraction to her and my need for someone to just accept me.

  By the time I made it to the door, the person had stopped ringing the doorbell and was knocking angrily.

  I grabbed my gun, pointed, and opened.

  Nixon had his out, too.

  Not what I expected.

  My stomach clenched as anger fueled me again. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  A brief sadness flashed across his face before he lowered his gun and tucked it in his jeans.

  I kept mine trained on his face.

  He leaned against the open doorframe and stared down at the ground even though I still had a loaded gun on him. “How long are you going to punish yourself?”

  Again, not what I expected. Slowly I lowered the gun to my side. “Who says I’m still punishing myself?”

  He snorted. “You’re living in the house you built her, with her shit still in the closet.”

  I flinched.

  “You’re letting her control you even now, from the grave. I can’t help but think that, even dead, she’s going to destroy us all.”

  “Why else do you think I’m wiping them out?”