When Da Silva Breaks the Rules (Blood Brothers 3)

‘I’m going back to my own room.’

She picked up her bag but Cesar caught her arm. He was shaking his head, incredulous. ‘What on earth is going on?’

She pulled her arm free and backed away, torn by the sense of increasing panic she felt and also by something much more disturbing: the desire to throw down the bag and launch herself into Cesar’s arms, ask him just to hold her, to reassure her that she could feel safe with him. But that was not what he was interested in—Lexie being vulnerable. He’d run a mile.

Then he stopped looking incredulous. He folded his arms. ‘I told you before that I don’t play games, Lexie.’

Lexie felt sad. ‘I’m not playing a game. I just can’t do this right now. I need...some space.’

For a long second Cesar just regarded her, and then his face became unreadable. He stepped back and said coolly, ‘By all means, Lexie, take all the space you need.’

Lexie gripped her bag and turned and walked out of the bedroom, and out of Cesar’s apartment, adrenalin coursing through her system. When she got back to her own room it felt desolate. And then she realised with a sense of dread that she felt desolate.

The truth was that she was damaged and broken inside. For a brief moment in time she’d believed that she had somehow been miraculously cured. But she hadn’t really. And this minor meltdown had just proved it to her.

* * *

‘I need some space.’ Cesar glowered so fiercely that his house manager saw him coming and scuttled out of sight. Those words had been eating away at him like poison for two days now.

One minute Lexie had been supine on his bed, flushed and sexy, huge eyes all but eating him up...and the next she’d become a different person. Cold. Stark. Dios, she’d flinched as if he might hurt her.

His skin prickled. He hadn’t liked that feeling. And he hadn’t liked to acknowledge how feral she’d made him feel. When she’d said she needed space it had been like a punch to his gut.

The thought that she might have even glimpsed a tiny part of how ravenous she made him feel had made him go cold all over. He’d had to step back to stop himself from acting on the visceral impulse to prove her words to be a lie.

But even now he could remember the look in her eyes. It had been panicked. And he couldn’t understand why.

The film unit was due to head back to London at the end of the week and Cesar was acutely aware of the fact—much to his chagrin. Especially when he’d set out at the very beginning to avoid getting involved at all costs.

For two days he’d deliberately avoided going near where they were shooting, in an old abandoned wing of the castillo. But today he found himself heading there even before he’d consciously taken the decision. The fact that he needed to see Lexie only put him into an even more foul humour.

Cesar saw the usual cluster of people as he got closer to the set—crew hanging around, waiting for someone to call for them urgently.

They nodded to him now. Said hello. He managed some civil responses. When he got closer he saw that the door to the set was closed. And there was a hushed air. He asked the third assistant director if they were shooting.

The young man shook his head and Cesar made to go onto the set, but the man stopped him. ‘You can’t go in there, Mr Da Silva.’

Cesar chafed at the obstruction. His need to see Lexie was like a burr under his skin now. ‘Why not?’ he demanded.

‘It’s a closed set. They’re doing the rape scene. Essential crew only.’

The rape scene.

Cesar didn’t know why, but he suddenly felt a chill in his blood. He looked around and saw the video

assistant in the corner, with his wall of monitors which showed whatever the camera was seeing inside the room. Usually there would be a couple of producers or some crew watching the scenes, but today there was no one.

He went over and sat down. Just as he realised that he couldn’t hear what they were saying the video assistant handed him some earphones. Cesar put them on and hunched forward.

They were about to shoot. The director was talking to Lexie and to Rogan, the male lead. Cesar’s breath hitched when he saw her. Her hair was down, tousled, and she was wearing some kind of diaphanous white gown. It was open at the front, as if it had been ripped, and he could see the ripe curve of her breast.

And then the director disappeared, leaving Lexie and Rogan on the screen. The first assistant director called out the instructions to shoot and then the director called action.

Rogan grabbed Lexie by the arms and shook her, spittle flying from his mouth as he said crude, horrific things. She looked tiny and vulnerable. She was pleading with him. But he wouldn’t listen. Then he brutally turned her and shoved her down on the bed, pulling her gown up over her thighs, undoing himself before he pressed himself into her, grunting like an animal.

The camera went close in on Lexie’s face, pushed down onto the bed. Rogan’s big hand was on the back of her head, holding her down. Her eyes were blank.

Cesar heard cut. But all he could really hear was the roaring of blood in his head. He wanted to move but he was paralysed.