And that’s exactly why she has to go. All I can think about is having my cock inside her, my lips on every inch of her skin. All I can think about is how I want her to sigh my real name—the name only she can call me and get away with it. Her laughter, her cries, the way she calls for me in her sleep and doesn’t even know it…
Fuck.
She has to go.
9
GIANNA
As soon I walk out of the bathroom after my swim, my eyes shoot over to the flowers that appeared less than an hour ago. They are stored in a glass case, with a big, bold note taped to the vase that says: DO NOT TOUCH THEM.
They are a beautiful, bold indigo. No thorns like the Blue Betrayals. No darkness like the Chocolate Cosmos. These are vibrant and full of life. Too pretty not to touch. In front of the flowers is a folded card and a pair of gloves. I pick up the black leather gloves again, turning the note over to read it once more.
Death by Indigo. That’s what they are called.
They are beautiful, alluring. All you want to do is touch them—feel them. See how they smell. You can smell. You can look. But you cannot touch. One fistful without gloves can ruin your life. They are the deadliest flowers on earth. They are banned because one touch on one tiny finger could paralyze a whole hand.
They are poisonous and toxic. They are exactly what you have become to me.
I know the handwriting all too well.
This note hits something inside me. I feel another ache, deep, deep down every time I read it. I feel a hand crushing what’s left of my heart.
My heart in his hand.
Crushing until nothing is left.
I get the urge to open the case—to touch them, to put an end to all of this.
But I am not weak. I won’t cave. He is angry now, but he has to forgive me. I am not his enemy. Not anymore.
There is a knock on my door several minutes later. I pull my gaze away from the sunset, telling the person to come in.
Emilio steps into the room with a silver tray in hand and a wary smile. “Would you like some champagne, Patrona?”
“Champagne? What are we celebrating? How I’m so great at fucking things up?” I ask, sarcasm laced in my voice. His mouth twitches. He just stands there, unsure how to respond. I sigh and answer, “Why not?”
Nodding, he steps up to a table in the corner and sets the tray down. He pours the champagne and then walks to me, holding the glass out.
When I accept, he says, “We all do foolish things, Patrona. Even the best of us—the strongest and most powerful—do things that don’t make sense sometimes. We are humans. We can only live and learn from our mistakes.” He forces a tight smile at me, and then he turns quickly.
He’s out of the door before I know it.
I sip my champagne, needing anything to pull me out of my gloomy mood. I walk to the closet and change into a silky pink gown, then shut off the lights, tucking myself beneath the sheets with my glass in hand. The pillows are plush and comfortable behind me.
From this spot, I can still see the ocean. If I listen hard enough, I can even hear it.
The soothing waves crashing to shore.
The soft swish.
I sip.
Sip.
Sip.
Until everything becomes dark and my body feels weightless.
I don’t feel anything, but I can still hear.
I hear a deep, heavy sigh.
Mumbling.
Whispering.
Arms wrap around me.
Lips are on my cheek.
Warmth is on my back, like someone is holding me.
I hear myself whisper his name, “Draco.” His name is a sweet, soft tingle on my lips.
“Damn it, Gianna,” I hear him murmur. And then it’s cold again.
Quiet.
He’s gone.
10
GIANNA
A hard gasp shoots out of me.
My eyes pop open, and I pant heavily, looking all around me. The space I’m in is familiar. Ivory leather. A sweet, cinnamon scent. I’m strapped into my seat. I’m on the jet again?
I’m still wearing the pink gown, but with a trench coat covering it. My lips feel numb. My body is tingling. I can’t get a good grasp on my breathing.
My eyes sting, tears blurring my vision, but then something catches my eye from the left.
No, someone.
Emilio is standing there. He’s been standing there this entire time.
“Emilio,” I breathe. “W-what the hell is going on? Why am I on the jet again?”
His face is sullen, and I see the guilt in his eyes. Though I ask in English, its like he can still understand my question.
“You put something in my drink, didn’t you!” I shout in the language he can understand.
“I didn’t put a thing in there, Patrona.”
“Then who did?” I demand, eyes still burning