“La mataré!” he barks. I will kill her. “I will squeeze the breath out of her body! I will fucking end her!” He is in a blinding rage, and for a moment I panic, assuming he’s talking about me.
He grabs his cellphone, asking about the whereabouts of Hernandez, and relief strikes me. I realize he must have been talking about her. I close my eyes, still holding my breath for fear that he may hear me, backing away slowly.
When I’m out in the hallway and the door is shut behind me, I start to turn but bump into someone.
The person’s hands lock around my upper arms, and I let out an even louder gasp, my heart racing as I meet his bright green eyes. Emilio pulls his hands away, lifting one finger up and pressing it to his lips, shaking his head.
“Leave him, Patrona. Let him grieve,” he whispers. With a sigh, he looks at the door Draco is behind. Without another word, he steps away from me and turns around, walking back down the hallway, stepping around a corner, and disappearing.
I draw in a deep breath and hurry for my room.
He is losing it.
Unhinged.
Damaged.
Broken.
And we all know it.
And since he won’t let me help him, the only thing I can do is stand by and watch—watch as he self-destructs.
8
DRACO
I can’t do this anymore. She is driving me out of my motherfucking mind.
I see her walking around, looking for me, and I hide—I fucking hide, because I can’t face her. I can’t look into her eyes and know for a fact she feels just as awful as I do.
I have to hate her.
I have to forget her.
I have to hold onto that urge of wanting to choke the shit out of her just enough—just enough until she thinks she’s on the brink of dying.
If only I could. If only I had it in me. But I don’t. So instead I pretend to be a ghost to her.
I thought I could handle it—having her around. I thought I could ignore her—pretend she doesn’t exist—but that is fucking impossible to do. She’s around. I know it. I feel her. I hear her when she cries—which she does, every single night—when I stop by her door, just to listen.
She’s drowning her sorrows, bottle after bottle, and I am not doing a damn thing to stop it.
It’s not like me to reward or give solace for the fucked-up shit she’s done.
It’s not like me to forgive and forget. It’s not in my DNA.
She almost had me out by the pool—she was so fucking close to getting me to crack. Her sweet, wet pussy wrapped around me was enough to make me weak and almost enough to make me say the words: Okay, I forgive you.
But I didn’t.
I couldn’t.
I can’t.
I can’t fucking forgive her, because if I do, she’ll want to stay.
She needs to be pushed away. She needs to think I don’t want her. She needs to know that there are things far more important to me than whatever it is I feel for her.
I know what I am about to do is wrong. What I am about to do may cause her to hate me forever. What I am about to do is shattering me, inside and out. It’s ruining me—making my fucking chest hurts. She’s given me an ache I’ve never felt before.
Emilio appears at the door after making the first delivery, lips pressed thin as he pulls his gloves off. I’m certain there are a million questions racing through his mind, but he knows better than to ask them.
I set a clean glass on the silver tray with the champagne I told him to bring. “Take it to her,” I order, looking away. He picks it up right away, hurrying out of the room.
Never in my entire fucking life have I felt a burn this fierce in my chest—a fire this strong swarming in my veins. I down my tequila, hoping—no, praying—that it will make me go numb.
It does nothing but fuel my emotions, drawing out the darker parts of me again.
“Shit,” I curse, slouching down in my chair, shoving rough, thick fingers through my hair. I hear the voices in my head—the voices that constantly drive me to do the mad shit I do.
Don’t.
Stop.
Do not become weak for her.
Fuck her!
And then there is the other voice.
Go.
Run to her.
You fucking need her!
Go!
It’s overwhelming as fuck. Every battling chant, every consuming thought of her.
Mi reina. Mi patrona. Gianna.
I shoot out of my chair, glass still in hand, and throw it at the wall across from me. The glass splinters into pieces, sharp shards scattering all over the room. But I don’t care for the glass, because on that same wall, right across from me, is a mirror.
I see myself.
Face pale.
Dark, empty eyes.
Being away from her is destroying me. Being away from her makes me hostile. It makes me want to fight and ruin. Despite how angry I am, how I want to blame her, I can’t, because I want her so fucking much.