by Lana Sky
“Sit down.”
I don’t. But I don’t storm from the room, either. I wait, breath bated, shoulders squared, my body thrumming with more indignation, hate, rage, and shame than I have ever felt at one time.
“I don’t want you because of your father,” he snaps. “I could think of several much less taxing ways on my part to humiliate him.”
He sounds far too stern for jokes. It’s the truth. And I now feel a sudden urge to warn my father of the danger he’s really in. First things first. “So then why?”
“The experience,” he says, as if he’s used to picking and choosing which life milestones to conquer on a whim. “I’ve never had a virgin.”
I scoff at the word use. Had. “So, I’d be just another trophy in your collection?”
“I’m willing to abide by your terms.” He doesn’t bother denying it.
Ah. No wonder he’s been so accommodating with dinner.
“Take your offer and shove it up your ass, Mr. Villa,” I say sweetly. “My body isn’t for sale. Though I have to commend you for being the first man I’ve ever met who was so disgustingly honest about only wanting to get into my pants.”
“Don’t play coy with me.” He pushes back from the table as well but remains seated. “I was there, Ms. Thorne, when you kissed me—”
“You kissed me!”
“I felt you. I heard you, if you haven’t forgotten your little display. And…”
I don’t see him reach out until it’s too late. He snatches my wrist, tugging me against him. My hands scramble for purchase over his shoulders, but he tugs harder, nearly forcing me onto his lap. His free hand cinches my waist with breathtaking familiarity. I’m trapped.
“I must remind you that I have a remarkable sense of smell.”
I bite my lip, torn between slapping him again and running. Or both. I attempt to wrench my wrist free, but he doesn’t let go. He doesn’t tighten his grip, either, teasing me with a glimpse of freedom.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
Suddenly, his face is parallel to mine, which allows him to speak directly into my ear. “It means that I know when you’re lying.” He lets me go and I scramble away from him, smoothing the front of my gown with trembling fingers.
“Well, try this one on for size: Goodnight.” I storm toward the main room of the greenhouse only to falter over the threshold. He hasn’t moved from his chair. Maybe that little fact makes me brave enough to utter one last taunt. “Let’s say I was interested in ‘negotiating.’ What would you offer in exchange?”
I’m ready for something truly wicked. An insult that will justify more than a slap. A kick between his legs. A punch. Something vile enough to warrant assaulting a blind man and ruining what little shred of gratitude I may feel toward him once and for all.
“It’s simple,” he says, sounding more than willing to take the bait. “I’d give you whatever you wanted.”
“W-what?” I shake my head. No way I heard that right.
“I said, you could have whatever you wanted. Within my means, of course.”
I force out a haughty laugh the likes of which would make Sharla from accounting proud. “So if I asked you to get on your knees and kiss Heyworth Thorne’s feet, you would?”
“I’d consider it.” He doesn’t even cringe at the prospect. “Though there is no telling what I might do to him after fulfilling your request.”
Fair enough. “What if I asked you to give me your fortune?”
He shrugs. “I’ve had nothing before.”
I blink. “Your studio?”
“Property,” he tells me the same way another man would say plastic fork. Referring to something easily disposed of and replaced.
“What if I asked you to paint me every night for the rest of my life?” I ask. Though he had already expressed a fleeting interest in shortening it.
“Really, Ms. Thorne, I would have thought you’d have some imagination.”
“Oh, Mr. Villa, I’m afraid my imagination couldn’t come close to a man so desperate to get laid that he’d…”
Do anything.
“Understand one thing about me, Ms. Thorne,” he says, flattening his hands on each corresponding knee. “I know at least ten women within a block radius alone who I could call to, as you put it, ‘get laid.’ Sex isn’t what I want from you.”
I’m frowning. “Then what?”
“The same thing I was after when I met Daphne from Moscow. I was curious how her accent might sound when she orgasmed. In exchange, I paid to have her family relocated and supplied with the adequate documents. I wanted to experience a woman with age, hence I gave Catarina from Madrid a quarter of a million dollars. Marnie from Kentucky had never experienced, as she put it, ‘kink.’ In exchange, I jumpstarted her career as a successful model in Italian vogue.” He ticks them all off like accomplished chores. Daphne. Catarina. Marnie.
I know without having to ask that each starred in a painting of his. One of them could be the figure hanging on my wall.
“Everything I do, I do for my art. Human nature cannot be copied. It must be experienced.”
And, for some reason, he wants to “experience” me.
“I’m sure your previous ladies had a wonderful time, but I’m not for sale.” My voice shakes, but damn it, I don’t care.
“I do not purchase women.” He sounds genuinely insulted by the idea. “Every encounter is a mutual one. And I can assure you that the curiosity went both ways. I’m sure you’ve thought the same thing, even in that sheltered head of yours. Can the blind man fuck?”
“Don’t mock me,” I hiss.
With equal vitriol, he says, “Don’t underestimate me.”
“You should take your own advice. Maybe I want my first time to be with a man who gives a damn about me, hmm? Have you considered that?”
A man who could understand my night terrors. Who could hold my hair when storms have made me vomit. Who wouldn’t run at the mere mention of Simon.
It’s a laundry list I stopped wishing for years ago. And I won’t even consider how many boxes Damien has already check marked.
“A man who gives a damn,” he repeats. “What about a man who gives a dime? My men earn a salary of no less than a grand per day.”
And I spotted at least three watching over me. “Oh, congratulations!” I clap my hands. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. “Give the man a medal! If you want to throw your money in my face, then fine. I’ll send you a check to cover the expenses—”
“I don’t expend my resources or time on people or things that hold no value to me.” His tone resonates unlike any I’ve heard from him before now. Cold. Ice. Soulless. “You’d do best to remember that. I’ve taken an interest in your welfare, whether you like it or not.”
“And I always honor my debts.” Though I pray to any deity who will listen for the strength to forsake my pride now. “So ask your final question, Mr. Villa. I’m waiting.”
From the set of his jaw, I know it will be devastating. Simon? Or something far more taboo, like the meaning behind that yearly bottle of wine? I feel every muscle in my body tense in anticipation.
I’m ready.
“I…” He sits forward, his head cocked. Then he stiffens. “Get out.”
“W-what?”
He rises to his feet and advances toward me without warning. “Go.”
“What are you—”
“Now!”
“Con permiso, brother.” The voice of another man drifts through the glass walls of the greenhouse.
I turn and find a figure strolling down the main aisle, tall like Damien, with the same incredible bone structure. Only this man’s eyes are fully intact, a haunting shade of amber, and his hair is closely cropped to his scalp. He’s leaner as well, wearing a black shirt and jeans. Despite the casual attire, he holds himself with an air that rivals even Damien’s swagger.
“I thought I should join you tonight and introduce myself.” He turns that chilling gaze on me and smiles i
n a wicked display of white teeth. “Buenas noches, Juliana Thorne. I wondered when you would pay your respects.”
“Mateo.” Damien pushes past me and nearly trips over the discarded pizza slice in his haste.
I’ve seen him angry, but never like this. His mouth flattens into a harsh line, stripped of emotion. It’s how Daddy used to look whenever Danger, his prized mutt, ran out of the house off his leash.
“Whatever you want, we can discuss it later.”
“There’s nothing to discuss.” Mateo shares the same light accent as his brother, but where Damien’s words fall like haunting music, Mateo’s are all sharp, thundering notes. He smiles and lowers his hand over his brother’s shoulder, hard enough to jar his balance. “I merely wished to join you. I’m so lucky to have made it to dinner in time.” His tone conceals a hard note that I sense is solely directed at Damien.
A warning.
“Pizza tonight?” He eyes the offering on the table and shrugs. “Lo siento. I’m being rude.” He cuts his gaze to me: dark, cold eyes. “Ladies first.”
“She’s leaving,” Damien warns. “Goodnight, Ms. Thorne—”
“Ah, but we have so much to discuss, Juliana and I.” Mateo grabs my vacated chair by the back and deliberately angles it toward me. “Have a seat.”
“Mateo,” Damien warns through gritted teeth. Blind or not, his voice rings with an authority few men would ignore.
His brother laughs. “Oh, but I was so looking forward to our conversation,” he says softly. “Sí. Who better to understand our recent troubles than another so-called murderer?”
Silence. It falls so thick that I can hear my heartbeat surging wildly beneath my skin. Like a tune composed of one haunting lyric: Murderer. Murderer. Murderer.
“Let’s play a game. The life game.” Smiling wide, Simon glanced from me to Leslie and back. “Who matters more?”
“Sí,” Mateo says, sounding miles away. “If anyone could understand my predicament, it’s this woman. A killer at the age of eight, self-professed, even—”
“Mateo!” Damien slams his hand against the table so hard that he knocks it off its axis.
I’m in the present again, stunned as what’s left of the pizza lands on the floor.
Grinning, Mateo stoops for a piece and takes a bite. “It’s no wonder she came calling,” he adds after swallowing, “Did you want to know what it’s like, hmm? To actually be punished for a crime?” He laughs and nods toward the half-eaten slice in his hand. “It’s good. Much better than what they serve in prison. Plus, I don’t have to stab a pendejo in the back for it—”
“Enough.”
“I just want to know what it felt like,” Mateo insists, his voice dripping with derision and charm. “To take away someone who mattered from a family who loved them. When you had nothing. No one. Though you did score yourself a rich daddy, eh?”
“I said enough.”
“Oh, but we’re having such a thrilling conversation. Aren’t we, Juliana?”
“You.” He pointed to me, grinning wide. “You pick. Remember the rules—”
“Juliana.” Damien’s voice has never sounded so cutting. It sinks into my skin, demanding my obedience. “Look at me.”
I do. He’s a blur, fading in and out of focus.
“This one matters, doesn’t she? She’s important, isn’t she? She’ll be missed, won’t she?
“Watch.” I had no choice.
He put the knife to Leslie’s throat. Dug in hard enough to make her whimper. Then scream. And scream…
“Look at me!”
I blink and the flashback melds into Damien. Then the forest. Damien. The forest. Simon. Leslie.
A sound I vaguely recognize as coming from me fills the air. A wheezing gasp. Can’t breathe. My fingers claw at my chest, but air won’t go in.
Can’t breathe!
“Enough!”
Warmth brushes my shoulder and I’m shoved toward the door.
“Go,” someone commands.
“No.” The second voice is harsher. “Let her stay.”
I’m dragged another step forward. Another. Suddenly, the world sways and I’m pushed aside. I stumble against the wall, fixated on the scene unfolding before me.
Mateo grabs his brother’s arm, his knuckles whitening over coiled muscle. “I said let the puta stay—”
Boom! In a flurry of motion, someone careens into a nearby planter, sending soil and crushed flowers sailing through the air. They groan, lying dazed in the aftermath. Thin. Mateo. His brother stands over him, his hands clenched into fists, his body radiating fury. Madman, Daddy called him. Now, I know why as his head swivels in my direction, his voice a slap.
“Go!”
My limbs jolt into motion. I run for the exit and across the roof without looking back. Panting, I reach the elevator and take it to the first floor. A man barges into the lobby at the exact moment the elevator doors open. I ready my hands to fight, my throat already clenching around a scream.
“It’s all right,” he says, crossing to me. His face looks familiar. Faint sound crackles from an earpiece he’s wearing. “Mr. Villa sent me. I’m to take you home.”
Home.
Where Simon’s probably waiting for me. Where memories definitely are.
The home I don’t deserve.
The life I stole by killing Leslie.
Damien’s man hustles me onto the street, muttering something about a car being sent around. While he speaks, my eyes latch onto a yellow cab and I break away from him to flag it down.
“Wait!”
The guard can’t catch up before I fling myself into the back seat and slam the door behind me. The bewildered driver watches me from the rearview mirror as I slap my hand against the back of his seat.
“Drive!”
Damien’s man is already pawing at the door, but the cabbie doesn’t need to be told twice. He plunges into the thick of traffic without waiting for a destination.
Not that I have one to give.
The driver refuses to take me beyond the city boundaries until I dial my accountant from his personal phone and have the man promise to pay a month’s wages in exchange for taking me where I want to go.
A lonely stretch of road four hours away.
I make him drop me at a rest stop, where I attempt to buy a cheap bouquet of carnations before remembering I don’t have a dime on me. Still, the cashier lets me have them out of pity, and I continue my pilgrimage on foot as the wind howls and nips at my hair and bared skin.
My flowers are frost-bitten when I finally reach a foreboding bend in a winding road. Sorry, Leslie, I mouth. They’re not even her favorites, lilies. Just dying, pink petals and crumbling leaves.
It’s so damn silent here, even now. Houses have sprung up close to this spot. There’s a newer development in this part of town, a hint of civilization where there used to be nothing.
I don’t have any trouble finding that small, dank crevice only a child could fit into. A matted layer of weeds has grown over the opening, remaining even as winter approaches. I perch my meager offering against a tree and then use both hands to tear the underbrush apart.
Twenty years later and it’s never felt realer. Leslie’s screams have never been louder. Simon has never felt closer.
I can hear him picking his way through the forest to find me and finish off the deed he taunted me with all those years ago. I hid here, holding my breath, shielded beneath a surging storm.
“You made the right choice,” he told me then. “You won’t be missed like this one will be—”
“Juliana!”
I jolt into awareness as reality makes itself known in varying degrees of pain. My burning, frostbitten skin. My cramping knees and my aching back. I’m hunched against the hillside, partially huddled within the crevice. Daylight stings my eyes as my ears catch footsteps prowling the woods nearby.
Fear grips my heart. Simon?
Whoever the figure is, he’s persistent. “Juliana!”
/> Wait. I flinch. That voice doesn’t belong here. Even the wind seems confused by his presence. It plays with the lilting notes of his accent, distorting them.
“Juliana! Answer me—”
“I’m here.” My voice is a whisper promptly swallowed by the wind as I fixate on the imposing man wandering the woods just a few feet away.
He stops, his head cocked, sensing me regardless. “Where are you?”
I can’t bring myself to move, even as he staggers within my reach, each step hesitant over uneven terrain. Somehow, he appears regal while tentatively feeling the space in front of him. He’s still wearing his suit from dinner, a sauce stain along the lapel.
“Where?”
I stand slowly, biting a groan back. Is he here to finish the game his brother started? Or because of his stupid wager? Or because…
“Juliana, por favor. Where are you?”
“Here.” I stagger toward him and grasp his outstretched hand in my own.
He’s an inferno, clamping down like a vise. “You’re freezing.” The next instant, his coat is around my shoulders and he’s shouting something into his headset.
“You…you found me?” I sound dazed. I am freezing. I don’t have my coat, and frost glitters on my dress.
Damien says something else into his headset. Moments later, a man I recognize as Julio appears, panting by his employer’s side.
“This way, sir.”
For the first time, I realize that Damien literally went searching for me blind. He’s unfamiliar with the landscape, using Julio’s guidance to steer me forward. But his grip is sure and I’m so damn tired. When I lean against him, he doesn’t even flinch. His arm slides around my shoulders instead, offering more support.
So strange. So surreal. Too fragile to question.
So I merely observe.
He and his guard came by car. It’s parked along the road, and I’m guided into the back seat while the guard circles around to the driver’s seat. Damien, on the other hand, takes the seat beside me. He says something to the driver in Spanish and the car begins to move.
