Twisted Fate (Dark Heart 2)

When I said, “I have to come first,” I was planning to stretch out on my back, get him between my legs, and then roll off the mattress. Instead, I let him lick me, push his fingers in. He was desperate to get off, and I was in charge, so it seemed safe.

He said, “I would want this anytime, and anywhere,” and backed that up, taking his time. He kept looking up me, checking in—the way he used to do, my sweet Luca—and then he called me “Il mio bellissimo tesoro.”

I told myself he’s a smooth talker. How could he do his job if he weren’t? I inured myself to the hoarse and heavy-lidded sweetness of him…or tried to.

He lost such control of himself, coming. I don’t think I ever saw him like that before. His body trembled like he hadn’t come in years. Right after, he hugged me with his arms around my hips, squeezing me as if I was still his.

It was too much.

As I scrambled off him, I saw shock on his face, upset—like he cared that something was wrong. That just made me lose it more. Because he doesn’t. Luca doesn’t care about me. All of this is crazy, messed up…shit. We’re twisted up, like he said in the shower. I told him I wanted to feel him, to see if he still felt the same, because I thought he wouldn’t—but he did.

As his arms lock me against his chest now, I feel a crest of panic. It’s that kind of horror-movie panic where the monster grabs you and you know your fate is sealed.

I break away and shove him, desperate to retreat before I lose hold of myself.

“Rosa…” His hands grip my shoulders and he turns me around to face him. His wide eyes implore mine as he squeezes gently. “Tell me what’s the matter, dolce rosa…” His brows draw together.

“YOU are!”

My unhinged shriek hits him like a slap. I see its echo on his face, as plain as any hand mark. In his shock, he loosens his grip on me.

“I have to go.” I jerk the bedroom door open, nearly striking myself in the forehead as I try to scurry out.

“Rosa, rosa… Vieni con me.” His hands catch me by the waist. He tosses me over his shoulder before shifting me back down into his arms, clutching me to his chest, whispering, “Ora vieni con me…” This can’t be real. It isn’t real.

I cover my face as he carries me into the living area. I pretend those aren’t his arms around me as my body shudders—not his warm, hard chest below my tear-stained cheek. He sits on the couch, shifting so I’m cradled against him. He keeps whispering Italian things, and now I know Italian.

His palm cups the back of my head, stroking downward with a firm but gentle pressure. Then he wraps his arms around me again. Every time he whispers near my ear, more tears fall—because it’s not supposed to be this way. I hate him.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, like a simpering fool.

I feel Luca’s mouth near my ear. “Chi dovrebbe essere imbarazzato, tu o io? La bella donna o l’uomo che era il mostro?”

“You’re not a monster,” I rasp. I squeeze my eyes shut, embarrassed by the way I’m trembling.

Luca shifts so he’s leaned back against the couch, still holding me against him. With one hand, he’s stroking my back. I feel him inhale, let the breath out. Then his face comes down near mine, and he squeezes more tightly. “I am so, so sorry, rosa. So, so very sorry… I thought you were better off without me.”

I can feel him breathing harder. For a second I think he’ll let me go, bolt before he gets emotional. Instead, he grips me so tightly it hurts.

I translate his Italian as he whispers near my ear. There are so many bad things. You were the good thing.

He breathes deeply again, shifting so his arms are still around me, but not quite so tightly. I’m more vertical, with my cheek on his shoulder. His hand’s tracing my spine. His head is leaned back against the couch, so I can see his Adam’s apple as he swallows. He breathes deeply several times, and as his shoulders shift in the dim light, I see the scar on his cheek.

I wrap an arm around his shoulders. I can feel his body pause in surprise. Then I thread my arms around his neck, bringing his cheek down so it’s rough against mine.

“I’m sorry I hit you. I wanted to apologize for years, but I was scared to.” I was scared to look him up, afraid of what might happen.

“Rosa…don’t be sorry for that.”

Another tear treks down my cheek. “I can’t believe I did that.”

His lips brush my forehead. “Like a mark…to remember you by.”