A Thousand Cuts (Underworld Kings)

There were a few flaws in that plan.

Main one being Jessica and Eli. If I disappeared without a trace, Cristian might hurt them. He didn’t care about me. He’d made that clear when he came into the room after my assault. Whatever this past week had been, it had not magically changed something inside of him. I hadn’t stolen his heart, given the monster a soul. It didn’t work that way. He wouldn’t hesitate to hurt the only people I cared about.

Then there was the fact that my escape was being made in a car owned by Cristian, which I could only imagine had some kind of tracking device in it.

Then there was the life that I’d worked so fucking hard for.

Yeah, it might’ve been falling apart at the seams, but I was going to hold on. I may not have been through worse than this, but I’d been through some shit. I did not crumble easily.

Running was not an option here. For better or for worse, this was my home. For now, at least. And some entitled mafia asshole was not going to run me out of it.

So I was drinking, perched on the breakfast bar, staring into space. I did not stare in Felix’s direction. He was standing by the door, watching. Much like he had been when Lorenzo was holding a gun to my face. His face was a mask, as always, his hands clasped in front of his body, unmoving like a sociopathic statue.

I wasn’t sure whether he was here to make sure I was okay or to make sure I didn’t try to escape. Frankly, I didn’t care. He did not exist to me.

I wasn’t quite sure what the plan for the day was since work was out of the question, but drinking seemed to be a good way to start.

Free time was not something I was familiar with. I worked until late. Had business dinners. Cocktail parties. Bullshit charity galas Pete made me attend. Weekends didn’t exist for me. That’s how I liked it. How I needed it. To be constantly in motion. Working. Making money. I was not someone who went to brunch or Soul Cycle or spa weekends or whatever the fuck people did. Today I had to call in sick for the first time in the five years I’d been working there.

I didn’t take sick days, so I was sure the office was theorizing that I had gotten hit by a cab or was the victim of the latest serial killer. The truth was really crazier than fiction.

Movement in the corner of my eye jerked me out of my daze.

Cristian.

So he’d deigned to come out of his office. I wondered if he’d killed Lorenzo yet. My eyes flickered over him. No blood on his hands. But that wasn’t a sign of anything. The most dangerous and deadly of men walked the earth without blood on their hands. Visible blood anyway.

Anger burned through my veins to the point that I wanted to claw at my skin just to get a respite from it. Clawing at his skin seemed like a much better option. I wasn’t going to let myself be hurt by his reaction, or lack thereof, so instead, I was going to be pissed. Downright homicidal.

I didn’t speak to him, just kept my eyes on his, accusing and hostile.

On first glance, Cristian looked the same as always. Composed. Carved from marble. A deadly glint to his eye. But he was holding his body rigidly, his hands were fisted at his sides, and his even expression seemed forced. Or maybe I was imagining all of this. Conjuring something to create some kind of emotion in this man who I’d been telling myself I hated so thoroughly.

“Sienna,” he murmured, the soft sound carrying across the distance between us.

I drained my glass. “Now you remember I exist?” I jeered, sounding surly and petty.

But then again, after what happened this morning, I was entitled to be surly and petty. Or however the fuck I wanted to be. There was no right way for a woman to act after being assaulted, because the act itself was totally unfathomable.

“Will you come into my office?”

I blinked at Cristian’s request. For as long as I’d known him—which was a laughably short period of time, to be fair—I had not heard him make a request. He ordered me to do things. I, regrettably, obeyed. Most of the time, I loved the act of submission, and it had paid off in all kinds of ways.

This time he was giving me a choice. To do what, I didn’t know. Part of me wanted to advance on him, sink my nails into the skin of his face, tearing it apart so he might have scars to match mine.

As much as I considered myself a strong woman, this was going to scar me. Hence the alcohol. For the wounds. With everything I’d been through in my life, with my sexual history, I’d never been touched against my will. Not like that. Sure, there were mom’s boyfriends who’d attempted things, but their hands were soft, halfhearted and quick to retreat when I fought back. I’d never felt as truly helpless as I had earlier. Never stared down the barrel at the reality of what men could do to women.