My hair catches my attention once more. Right. I was looking for something to tame it with. I reach for the top drawer and pull it open. To my surprise, there’s a few different hairbrushes, toothbrushes, creams, and toothpastes. I reach for the large oval brush. It matches the one I have at home only it’s brand new, not tangled in a single hair. I can’t help it. My lips twitch. I should find it off-putting that he remembers a detail as small as what hairbrush I use, but I don’t.
I find it endearing.
Fucking. Endearing.
Forget daddy issues. Christiano must’ve fucked me up something bad.
I try brushing my hair but it’s impossible. I don’t have the strength to rip through these knots. I wonder…I cross the bathroom and open the door. I pause when I see that Stefan has cleaned the room. He’s taken all the wrappers, bandages, tubes, empty containers, and has replaced them with books, fruit, and a remote control for the gigantic TV on the far wall. He’s even made my bed, and what do I smell? I inhale.
Roses.
Next to the books, he’s put a small vase of white roses. My heart feels funny. It doubles up in its beats.
Stefan sits on the edge of my bed, resting his head in his hands. He doesn’t notice me standing by the bathroom and lifts his head to yawn. Then he spots me. And the brush.
I shouldn’t bother him. He looks incredibly tired. His dark, volcanic eyes are heavy, drooping into the bags underneath them. I tap the brush against the palm of my hand. What should I do?
“Come here,” he orders, his voice rough with exhaustion.
Yawning again, he reaches across the space in front of him and pulls a stool out from underneath the elegant, white desk and taps it. “Sit.”
I do as I’m told. I cross the bedroom and hand him the brush before lowering myself onto the stool. Stefan helps by gently touching his hand to my hip, offering me support. When I’m comfortable, he begins to brush, and I clench my jaw against the pain that tugs at my scalp.
Occasionally, whenever the brush yanks on my hair, he mutters “sorry” under his breath. As the knots move to the tips of my hair, I lower my head, peering down at his leather shoes on either side of me. On the left one, there’s a dry drop of blood and I shudder. I’ve learned not to ask about the work of these mob men, but in this case, I feel compelled to. Would he tell me more than Christiano does?
I clear my throat, cracking the painful silence. “How was work?”
“Fine.”
I roll my eyes. He gave me the answer I’m used to hearing. Maybe Christiano and Stefan aren’t that different after all. We fall back into the silence; the only sound to be heard is the brush as it rips through my tangles.
When he’s done, when the brush runs through my hair without getting snagged, I shift on my stool, turning around as much as I can just to look at him. Stefan frowns as I gaze at him. He doesn’t look like a killer. I mean, he has this glint in his eyes that only men like him have. The look of pain. And anger. Maybe regret too, but there’s a softness to him…the kind of softness that Christiano doesn’t have.
He’s a beautiful man, Stefan Valentino. The most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.
His attention flickers to my lips and back. Mine flutters to his. The silence we drown in is unbearable, but comforting all at once. We don’t know each other, not really, but I feel like he’s been in my life forever. I can’t explain the way my soul ignites when he’s present, but it does. It starts in my toes, an electrical current that clings to my bones and zaps my cells, travelling up my skeletal structure, lighting me up like nothing else.
“Thank you,” I say, scratching a spot on my thigh. “I thought I was going to have to shave my head to get those knots out.”
Stefan’s lips pull into a wide smile, exposing his perfect white teeth, and he lets out a gentle laugh. He fights it instantly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That’d be an interesting look for you.”
I chuckle. I would die without my hair. Reaching out, he pinches a lock of my golden, caramel hair and surveys it, wrapping it around his long, thick index finger and strokes it with the pad of his thumb. He does it for a minute without saying a word.
“Moretti has changed the circumstances surrounding your contract,” he finally says, keeping his dark eyes on my hair.
I lean forward, slightly. “He has?”
“Yes.” Our gazes lock. “I gave him someone else to take your place.”
Endless possibilities flick through my mind. He gave Moretti someone else? Who? It would have to be a Russo, someone who knows a hell of a lot more about what they do than I do. My stomach twists painfully, as if it’s been wrapped too tightly with sharp wire. At the same time, butterflies with hope on their wings flutter, creating a hurricane of guilt and anticipation inside me. Did Stefan give Moretti Christiano?
“It wasn’t—”
Stefan glares as warmth is sucked from his face and his demeanour turns dark. “No. It wasn’t him.”
Something washes over me and I don’t know if it’s relief or disappointment. Is that wrong? I’m so twisted up inside I don’t know how to feel right now. I don’t know how I should feel. The look in Stefan’s stormy eyes, however, tells me that he wishes it was Christiano…
…and maybe a small part of me does too.
“If Moretti got what he wanted…does that mean I can go home?”
His jaw ticks as he contemplates his answer. “Yes. When you’re healed, I’ll take you home.”
I feel my face smooth out in shock. Stefan purses his full lips and he doesn’t know it, but I see his entire posture change. It becomes rigid, almost robotic. The glistening in his eyes fade and his irises darken. I’m not a stranger to deceit. He’s lying to me. I know it. He won’t take me home. He doesn’t trust me not to tell Christiano where I was. Why would he? I don’t even trust me. One way or another, Christiano will force it out of me and then what? The thought of him hurting Stefan is almost…terrifying.
Without thought, I place my hand on his thigh, sliding it north ever so slightly. So quickly we become trapped in a daze, the result of a single touch. His muscles tighten underneath my palm as his pupils dilate. Something wicked brews in his intense stare and it grips my being. Would it be such a bad idea? If I had him, just once?
Stefan cranes his neck, lowering his face to mine. His lips are an inch away from my own and I contemplate kissing him, like I did that night in my kitchen. He’s a good kisser, the best I’ve ever had. My breaths come in shallow rushes as I search his eyes. Beyond the primal lust in the pit of my stomach and the depths of his stare lies something else…something that tells me I can trust him. My heart races in my chest. I know it shouldn’t, but it does. I’ve never wanted to be kissed so badly in my life. I stare into his dark eyes, completely disarmed and confused. His body radiates an unbearable heat. It pours onto me and flows through me, and there’s absolutely nothing I can do. He’s trapped me in his mesmerising gaze.
“Do you know what you’re doing?” he asks, his tone rough and deep.
I shake my head, unsure of his meaning. I never know what I’m doing. That’s my problem. He places his hand on mine, stilling it against his thigh, and holds me in his midnight stare. Stefan’s broad chest expands as he subtly inhales through his nose before letting it out between his soft lips. It’s a gentle exhale, one I wouldn’t notice if I didn’t feel it caress my skin.
He leans closer, so close our noses touch, and my breath hitches in my throat. I’m alive. My entire body is humming, like I’m standing at the peak of a mountain in the middle of a storm. My pain leaves me and I feel one hundred percent healthy, one hundred percent ready to take whatever Stefan wants to give me. I don’t care what it is. I want it.
I want him.
I want him more than I’ve wanted anything in my life. You hear stories about women who give up everything for a man. They give up their hopes, their dreams, their independence, and their careers. It never made sense to me. I’d never willingly do that for Ch
ristiano, not ever.
But right now…trapped in this state, this dream…I’d throw everything I have out the window.
And it’s terrifying.
Stefan plants a gentle kiss on my lips. It’s so quick I barely feel it. “Good night.”
Good night? I take my hand back as he stands up and moves around me toward the door. I frown, confused. “You don’t sleep here?”
“No.”
I turn on my stool. “I just assumed you—”
“You don’t know me, Cammie,” he states, holding the doorframe in his large hand. “Your bed is the last place I’d expect you to allow me.”
I drop my gaze to the floor in thought. Interesting. Christiano has slept in my bed from the beginning. Even when I asked him to sleep on the couch when we first started hanging out. He always pushed for sex and he still does, never taking no for an answer. I look back to Stefan. Is this who he really is, though? Or am I falling for his manipulation?
“Where do you sleep?” I ask, lifting myself off of the stool.
He glances out the door. “Down the hall.”
“Oh. Okay…well…” I rub at the back of my neck, collecting a damp layer of nervous sweat. I move toward my bed and slip onto the mattress. “Good night.”
Stefan offers me a small smile before switching out the light. He leaves and I’m left sitting in the dark, wondering what the hell just happened. Exhaling, I shuffle up to my pillows and lay down. Thankfully, the painkillers and the sleep medication begin to kick in and I feel somewhat dazed. I’m over-tired and hungry too. That could be contributing to the strength of whatever meds I’ve just taken.
I close my eyes and I see Stefan on the back of my eyelids, his broad shoulders, and his stern face. If I pushed to have him, would he have allowed it? I know I’m in no position for that kind of contact, given the extent of my injuries, but I would have tried.
God knows, I would have tried.
Chapter Twelve
“Ouch!” I hiss, dropping the scalding empty frying pan into the sink with a crash.
I squeeze my index finger at the very tip before hitting the tap and running the burn under cold water. It’s almost noon. I woke up at seven and waited in my bed for as long as I could before my hunger became unbearable. I didn’t expect Stefan to have decent food since he’s rarely home and is in such good shape, but holy hell, he has more food than a small time convenience store. I guess that, despite his busy and healthy lifestyle, he’s still Italian, and Italians love their food.
Slipping my index finger into my mouth, I shove the frying pan further into the sink and glance at my eggs. Perfection.
“What are you doing?”
I whirl on my heel, wincing as I go. “I’m making breakfast.”
Stefan saunters over to the fridge and pulls the heavy doors open. He looks delectable in a loose white tee and black sweatpants with dishevelled bed hair and clean, bare feet. He scratches the back of his head before reaching in and grabbing a glass bottle of fresh milk.
Closing the fridge door, he glances over his shoulder at the clock on the wall. “It’s lunch time.”
“Okay. So I’m making lunch then.”
He pulls his eyebrows into a frown, clenching the neck of the glass bottle, and settles against the bench beside me. “I didn’t know you could cook.”
“I don’t usually have time, and Christiano always took me to his family’s restaurant, so…” I pull a large plate toward him and smile.
I hope he’s hungry.
He surveys the crispy bacon, eggs, cooked tomato, and toasted Turkish bread that’s lightly seasoned with salt, pepper, and drizzled in olive oil.
Stefan looks at me. “I’m not eating that.”
I frown. Is there something wrong with it? “Why not?”
“At the moment, this house is filled to the brim with various sedatives and medications.”
“And?”
“And you’re a Russo, sweetheart.”
Moving off to the right, Stefan grabs the fresh pot of coffee I brewed less than three minutes ago and tips the black liquid into the sink.
I watch, surprised, as he makes another, grabs the newspaper that’s wrapped up and stuffed beside the toaster, rounds the island, and slips onto the stool across from where I’m standing. He unravels the newspaper, completely oblivious to my presence, and with a flick of his wrist, he opens the paper and hides himself behind it.
I press my palms against the counter and lean forward, tapping my fingers. “You think I’d poison you?”
He doesn’t peer over his newspaper. “Yep.”
Ha. How ironic. I gladly take whatever dose of medications he gives me without protest, but he refuses to eat or drink anything made by me because I might poison him?
“Last I checked, you’re the killer, not me.”
He lowers the newspaper, his black eyes glued to me. “Our professions are no different. Doctors kill people too. It’s just legal when you do it.”
I scoff. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
Shooting forward, I snatch the newspaper from his hands and dump it in the sink. Quickly it absorbs the coffee, ruining the print. “I am nothing like you.”
He quirks a brow. “Like me?”
“A murderer.” I scowl at him. “I help people. I don’t hurt them.”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
Gritting my teeth, I grab my plate. I’ll eat in my room. Before I can turn away, Stefan shoots across the bench, snatching my wrist in his hand. I tug against him and he tightens his grip.
“I’m sorry,” he says, stroking my wrist with his thumb. “Stay. Have breakfast with me.”
I can’t tell if he really wants me to have breakfast with him or not. He’s hard to read—even more so than Christiano. Nodding, I slowly make my way around the kitchen island and slip my plate onto the bench beside him. With gentle hands, he helps me onto a stool. Stefan sits close, so close our arms rest against each other. Every cell in my being hones in on that one spot and my body temperature climbs.
I eat my breakfast in silence while Stefan waits for his coffee to finish brewing. When it does, he makes us both a cup and returns to his seat beside me. To my surprise, he reaches across the bench and grabs his plate.
“You’re going to eat it?”
He sets it down in front of him and swallows hard. “You did go to a lot of trouble to cook it, especially in your current state…thank you. It looks delicious.”
I smile at him and hand him my fork.
He takes it and pushes it into a cooked tomato. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
I reach for my coffee and sip at it. “The comparison wasn’t what hurt my feelings.”
He eats the tomato and looks at me expectantly. Nervousness eats me at the thought of opening up to Stefan about my job. Christiano doesn’t want to hear it, but there’s nothing in Stefan’s expression that tells me he doesn’t care. I tap my finger against the countertop, finding a way to expel my nervous energy.
“I work really hard, you know? I fight to make my patients comfortable, to keep them going as long as I can…and sometimes my decisions don’t have good outcomes. Sometimes, I notice things too late or the actions I’ve decided to take don’t go the way I want them to.” I push my plate away as my stomach turns. “I try not to think about it, but…I don’t know. When it’s said aloud, I’m forced to think about all of the people I’ve failed.”
Stefan grabs my hand, stilling my finger. He continues to eat, occasionally flicking his thumb over the top of my hand to comfort me. Is that what he’s doing? Comforting me?
It’s quite a paradox, this…being comforted by the man who was paid to kill me. I’m conflicted. How is it that a man who barely knows me has comforted me more in twenty seconds than my ‘partner’ has in ten years? I shouldn’t be feeling this stir in my stomach. Is it wrong? Christiano and I were never official, not until he forced a ring on my finger, but a feeling of betrayal sti
ll lingers.
I should pull my hand from Stefan’s. To allow him to touch me is wrong…but why does the thought of betraying Christiano fill me with so much satisfaction? I’ve never admitted it, but the past ten years have been hell for me. It has changed the way I view myself. Once, I was filled with a confident energy and my self-esteem was through the roof. I truly believed I could have any man I wanted and that they would be incredibly lucky to have me. Then, after becoming involved with Christiano, when he started sleeping with other women, that confidence I had slipped out from underneath me. Before him, I revelled in the way men would stare at me. Now, it makes me nervous. I start trying to find things wrong with my outfit, my hair, or my body. I try to find a reason why they’d be looking at me because—in my head—it sure as hell isn’t because they think I’m beautiful.
However, when I don’t see Chris for a little while, my confidence creeps back. I feel pretty. I feel like I’m worthy of loyalty and faithfulness…but then he shows up again and strips it all away. He thinks he is irreplaceable. He tells me I’m lucky to have him and that there’s no one better than he is. I can’t agree and I can’t disagree because I don’t know if there is. I haven’t had a serious relationship outside of him.
Stefan keeps hold of my hand until he finishes his last bite and downs the rest of his coffee. When he’s done, he twists on his stool and faces me. With gentle hands, he turns me too, and our knees touch.
“Do you want to go for a drive?”
I straighten my posture as excitement bubbles, pushing all of that self-doubt to the back of my head. “A drive? In your car?”
He swipes at his mouth. “Yes.”
“Where to?”
“Anywhere.”
Bubbles of excitement flare through me, only to shrivel up and die when I think of my clothes. All I have are these ugly hospital gowns. I haven’t seen my playsuit since the night I jumped out the window and I bet it’s just as sliced up as my skin.
“I’m not leaving the house in this.”
He slips off the stool. “We’ll stop somewhere. Get you something nice.”