The Dark Elite (The Dark Elite 1)

The hot water feels like a thousand needles against my tender, damaged skin, and I hiss in a breath, letting the sharp sting steal my focus momentarily. I don’t look over at Ciro, but I can feel him watching me through the shower’s glass door.

Since we arrived back at the house, all of the men have been acting differently, and I don’t like it.

I don’t know how to function when they act anything close to nice or human. The anger I drew on to push them away was fueled by their arrogance and my frustration, but now that it’s gone, I don’t know what to do.

A tear drips down my cheek, joining the water droplets pouring down my body.

I turn away from Ciro, not wanting him to see my pain.

My weakness.

The hot cascade of water finally begins to soothe instead of hurt, and my muscles relax incrementally as more quiet tears flow down my cheeks.

It’s utterly quiet in the bathroom, aside from the hiss of the shower, and I can’t keep my gaze from darting over to Ciro, taking in his broad form through the glass. He stands still and stoic as a marble statue, watching me intently.

When he catches sight of my tear-streaked face, something shifts in his expression. His nostrils flare, and his jaw clenches. Then he strides forward, kicking off his shoes a second before he steps into the shower, fully clothed.

The glass door closes behind him, and I gaze up at him in shock.

23

Ciro

Something sparks deep inside of me when I see Grace’s face turn toward mine. Her entire body is wet, her face streaked with water droplets. But all I see are the tears. A heavy feeling grips my chest, something painful and sweet at the same time.

It’s something I haven’t felt in a long time, something I didn’t even know I could feel again.

I’ve spent so many years burying emotions deep within me, to a place where they can’t hurt me and I can’t reach them, but Grace draws things out of me that I never expected.

You’re in pain, I think. Let me help you.

Helping people isn’t my specialty. I’ve never wanted to help people—it’s the opposite of my job. I torture people. I bring the worst out of people.

But not Grace.

The pain in her calls to the pain in me, and without hesitation, I step forward, kicking off my shoes as I reach for the shower door. Her eyes widen in shock as I step into the shower, joining her under the water.

I don’t know what I’m doing. I haven’t thought this through. I’m simply acting on instinct, on the most primal feeling there is.

To protect.

Grace instantly shrinks away from me as water pelts my clothes, running down my shoulders and back.

Shit.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” I murmur roughly. I move toward her the same way she often moves around me—carefully and slowly.

She’s vulnerable right now, and I know how it feels to be vulnerable. But I also know how it feels to be trapped in your own darkness with no one to turn to, what it feels like to have to heal on your own, and I’m not going to let that happen to her.

She takes another step back, and I reach out a hand.

“Let me help you, Grace. Let me try.”

She looks at me with eyes brimming with tears, strength and vulnerability warring in her features. She’s been out of this world for six years, but I can still see the steel of a mafia princess in her. She was never raised to be a damsel in distress.

She cages her arms around her breasts, as if trying to protect herself from something. As if to hold as much of herself back as she can.

Water drips down my shoulders, neck, and onto my back as I patiently wait for her—and the battle of patience is less for her than it is for myself. As calm and comforting as I’m trying to be for her, it’s hard to do the same with my own conflicting feelings. The flood of emotions pumping through my veins is a surplus I’m not used to, and I fight the urge to push them away, to tamp them down.