Soulless (Starcrossed Lovers Trilogy 2)

Even after the secret sharing we still hated each other. You could never deny it, just how ingrained our loathing for each other really was. My family hated hers and hers hated mine. There was so much crossfire and so much instinct brewing over such a long time that it wasn’t even obvious anymore just why or how I hated the bitch in front of me as much as I did. I just did. I hated her.

She hated me just as much. I could see it in her folded arms and her bitchy scowl.

Still, I was done with fanning the flames for the night. I couldn’t be fucked with it. I was already done in from Morelli Holdings and the pricks there, and my father’s digs and a whole ocean of secrets that should never have been shared with an arch enemy.

Fuck it. She could have a fucking night of peace for once in her pathetic excuse for a life.

“You can put the pasta on tonight,” I told her. “Let’s see just how competent you Constantine cunts are at the basics, shall we?”23ElaineI didn’t think he could possibly be serious, but he was. Even with that raging scowl on his face, he grabbed the packet of pasta from the cupboard and threw it over at me. I managed to catch it, staring over at him like some kind of saucer-eyed weirdo.

“You want me to make dinner?”

He pulled a face at me like I was a moron. “No, I thought I’d throw you a packet of pasta for the hell of it.”

I couldn’t help but smirk. “You told me I was like an immature kindergarten baby, now there’s you being a sarcastic schoolkid to match. No, I thought I’d throw you a packet of pasta for the hell of it.”

I almost poked my tongue out, almost. I’m sure he almost gave me some punishment for my cheek, almost. He didn’t though. He pulled out a load of cheese and other stuff from the fridge and dropped it on the counter.

“Show me what you can do then, chef girl,” he said, and his tone was still sarcastic.

I had an undeniable urge to show him just how capable I really was. I could make damn pasta.

“Do you like spices?” I asked him.

“Is that what you do, is it? Spicy pasta?”

I grabbed the pan from the drawer. “Yeah, I like spices.”

“So do I,” he said.

I chalked it up as one other crazy little thing I had in common with the monster. I only hoped I remembered just what spices to use. I hadn’t cooked pasta in a long time.

He opened one of the cupboard doors up high and pointed the spice rack out to me. I acted surprised, like I hadn’t already scoped out everything in this place ten times over. I pulled out the paprika and the oregano and the chili pepper. And then I chanced the cayenne powder. The hot one.

He didn’t say a word as I boiled the water for the pasta.

“The Power Brothers want my family to team up with theirs,” he said to me, and it hardly surprised me, even though it gave me a fresh surge of resentment.

“Yeah, well. Two sets of assholes together.”

His gaze was piercing from across the kitchen, his stance more casual than normal as he slouched back against the counter with folded arms.

“Why do you hold on so tightly to the fact that your family are somehow the good guys? You must know full well you are seedy cunts too.”

I did know that, but I hadn’t seen it. Not really. I still held my dad up as some kind of idol in both the media spotlight and our personal life. He was always so steadfast and so strong and managed our empire so perfectly. Or so I believed.

“We’re definitely the good guys compared to you,” I said. “I’ve heard plenty of stories about your family and how bad you are.”

“Ditto,” he told me. “I’ve heard plenty of stories about yours, too.”

I put the pasta in the pan and began to stir. I knew we were both churning and festering with a whole mess of stuff between us. Shared secrets, and rage, and hate, and this weird new sense of casual somehow. It was fucked up, just like we were. We were two peas of fucked-up in a very fucked-up pod.

I was still trying to digest the secrets. I couldn’t help but wonder what the hell it must be like in Lucian Morelli’s body without even a vague idea of pain. He must be so curious about it. I would be – little miss curious. I was already curious enough about how curious he must be, let alone be that curious for myself.

I wondered if he was wondering what my wreck of a past was like. Maybe he was curious too. Maybe he was wondering the things I had wondered, like just why Uncle Lionel was so cruel to his own flesh and blood.