“I wouldn’t marry you if you had the last functioning dick on earth,” she said, pushing me away with a palm to my chest. Maybe I would have been offended, but the expression on her face wasn’t hateful; it was eager.
“The last functioning dick, huh?” I echoed, plucking the almost-finished cigarette from her fingers and taking the last puff. I blew the smoke back in her pretty face, and she didn’t even flinch. I stepped closer to her, caging her against the wall with my arms. “I don’t need a dick to make you scream, Avery Capulet. I’ve got a tongue, and two hands, and I wouldn’t need to marry you to make you come on either of those things.”
Blood rushed to her cheeks when I said that. I smirked, dropping the cigarette butt on the ground and crushing it beneath my sneaker. I turned and walked away, feeling her eyes as they burned into the back of me, both of us knowing that I had won this time.
Chapter Eighteen
ROME
Nobody ever paid attention to us when we were young. She was second-in-line for a throne that her older sister had already been molded to fit. I was the ruins of a family legacy that had soared too high, and crashed spectacularly, the sole survivor of a broken dynasty.
We were both afterthoughts to our fathers; mine, who had been driven out of town after the fire; and hers, who was focused only on Adeline, the oldest Capulet offspring, the prodigal daughter who would ascend the throne.
But I paid attention to Avery Capulet. And she paid attention to me. And something about the fact that we were forbidden only made me want her more.
Love isn’t always a happy thing.
Sometimes it’s a dirty habit, a vice that makes you miserable with need. A desperate addiction that threatens to kill you in every moment that you spend apart. There’s no happiness in love when you know it has an expiration date. Only an anxious, gnawing grief of a future you both already know, a day when you’ll be forced apart. Avery and I knew our time was finite. Our story’s ending was hurtling toward us at the speed of light. We just thought we had more time.
And then Avery’s sister died, and our end arrived quietly, like a snake, sinking its poison into us before we knew we’d been bitten. Even as I was breathing air into Adeline Capulet’s water-filled lungs, pumping her chest with my flattened palms hard enough to feel her ribs crack under the force, I knew I had lost Avery. Like a thief, death stole more than just Adeline from her family, and from my best friend, who truly loved her; death stole the future we’d all hoped could somehow one day be a reality.
Loving Avery Capulet didn’t make me happy. It made me heartsick. So when she betrayed me, it was the worst pain I’d ever endured; but it was also, in some strange way, a relief.
The next time I wake up, I wonder if it was all a dream. The two guys who operated on me. The car journey. The guy who raped Avery. Was it all just some fucked up nightmare?
Avery’s face swims in my vision. I’m back on the mattress, the cuffs gone, the bullet out of my shoulder, leaving a biting pain in its wake. I blink once, twice, my eyes focusing enough to see the look on Avery’s face, and I know none of it was fictional. It was a nightmare, yes, but not the kind you wake up from.
“Where did you go?” she whispers. “Where did he take you?”
I shrug, still trapped halfway between sleep and wake. “A little trip to the surgeon,” I mutter. “For someone who’s going to brutally murder us, he sure did seem to want me alive.”
Which is extremely fucking troubling. A killer who has underground surgeons save his victims. Who he shot. I can’t make it add up.
“I thought you were dead,” Avery whispers. She has new clothes on, a white t-shirt and a black skirt that ends mid-thigh; and she’s clean, no longer covered in our blood. She’s even wearing some kind of necklace, a thick black choker that looks like it’s made of leathery plastic.
“One little bullet isn’t going to kill a Montague,” I murmur. Avery smiles at that. And then immediately bursts into tears.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
“Why?” I reply, a little too bitterly. “You didn’t shoot me.”
I ty to sit up, groaning at the flash of red-hot agony that sparks across my shoulder and through my body when I move. Motherfucker. Getting shot is so fucking inconvenient. Give me a good stabbing any day.
Avery moves to help me, and that makes me angry.
I shrug off her assistance, watching the hope on her face fade to resignation as she sits back on her heels. With difficulty, I eventually maneuver myself into a sitting position against the wall. I look down at myself, confused when I see I'm wearing a new black t-shirt, dark denim jeans. These aren't my clothes. I look Avery up and down again, taking in her new clothes, her clean hair. “Did you go to the mall or something while I was gone?”
Her eyes blank for a second. Her face falls, her hand coming up to finger the choker she’s wearing around her neck. Suspicion peaks in my chest immediately; I know where I’ve seen one of those before. It’s not a necklace. It’s a fucking collar.
A collar you would put on a dog.
“What is that?” I ask, alarm bells ringing underneath the pain. I’m talking barely above a whisper, trying to speak without being heard by whoever is outside the room, watching us, but they can probably hear every word I say. Between the one-way glass and the cameras, I doubt I can think in this room without being heard.
Her amber-colored eyes, the same eyes I remember always being full of fire, are blank now, shiny with unshed tears. She looks so bereft, it's almost frightening. And I don't scare easy. But when it comes to Avery, I've never been able to regulate any kind of emotion. Raging lust. Forbidden love. Fierce loyalty. And then, the thing that replaced it all. Hate. Black, festering, hate.
My soul might have died every time I thought about her after she fucked me over, until I was hollowed out of anything good and filled with bitter hatred, but I can't hate the girl sitting in front of me with a collar around her neck. She's too pained, too damaged.
Love makes you weak, my father said to me once, after my brother died. Hate keeps you strong. He was referring to the Capulets, of course, the engineers of our ruin.
Love. Makes. You. Weak.
I can't afford to be weak, not if we're going to get out of here alive.
Don't feel sorry for her, I tell myself. She destroyed you once. If you let her, she'll destroy you all over again.
She still hasn't answered me.
“Avery!” I hiss. “What happened while I was gone?”
Big, fat tears roll down her face as she shakes her head emphatically. She can't even talk about what happened, yet she knows exactly what I saw. Was it worse? How could it get any worse?
She opens her mouth as if to speak when there's a loud crash from the other side of the one-way glass. Both of us freeze, her overflow of emotion turned off like a faucet, my pain forgotten as fresh dread lances through my weary bones. I'm not about to be on the ground when this psycho comes back in, so I stand as quickly as I can, bracing my good arm against the wall as I get to my feet. Everything spins for a second, so I blink until the sensation of falling goes away.
Avery is next to me, her hands clutching at that collar around her throat. I've seen something like it before, but I can't place it. Instinctively, using my non-shot arm, I press Avery behind me slightly, positioning my body so he has to get through me to get to her. I mean, I'm sure a small child could push me over right now, what with the being shot and all, but I've at least got to put up a fight.
Avery starts to shake behind me as the heavy metal door swings open, the man from before still dressed exactly the same, in his all black attire and matching black balaclava. He's got a gun in one hand, a knife in the other, and it pisses me the fuck off that I've got nothing to defend us with except my one good arm. I mean, the guy's wearing steel-capped boots, and I don't even have a pair of shoes.
The guy comes closer, brandishing the large butcher's knife in Avery'
s direction. I keep tucking her behind me, following the guy as he circles us in this narrow space, a weapon in each hand. And suddenly, her betrayal falls away. It doesn't matter what she did; only that I loved her, once. It only matters that the part of me that once burned for her is still there, hidden under all the anger and the hurt. I still love her. And the thought of this guy hurting her, the ways he's already hurt her; I can't bear it. I've been this terrified exactly once before. When I woke up, just a kid, and my entire bedroom was on fire. I got out. My brother didn't. He burned to death while concerned neighbors held my mother so she wouldn't run back inside and burn too.
I am that scared now. Terrified of what all this might mean. Sick to my stomach at the prospect of having to watch Avery be violated again.
"Hurt me," I say. "Don't hurt her."
The guy stops, his head tilting slightly, and I hear a muffled laugh. He holds the knife out to me, and I reach my fingers out on pure instinct, willing to risk grabbing the knife when it's this close to me, even though it's probably a trap.
"I'm not going to hurt her," he says in that distorted voice, pressing the handle of the knife into my open palm.
"You are."
THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING VERONA BLOOD!
I hope you loved getting the first glimpse into Verona and meeting Rome, Avery, Will and the gang. Their story continues in BURN IN YOUR BLOOD.
The ultimate betrayal …
In Burn in Your Blood, Lili St. Germain continues the story of a damaged Capulet princess, as she seeks the truth about her Montague enemy in a world full of secrets and lies.
Pre-order BURN IN YOUR BLOOD now!
And sign up for my newsletter to find out about my upcoming releases: www.lilisaintgermain.com/newsletter
If you enjoyed Verona Blood, you’ll love The Gypsy Brothers series!
The first book in the series, Seven Sons, is FREE on my website, and the series is now complete and ready for you to binge-read! Plus, the entire series is FREE to read in Kindle Unlimited!
Confucius said, “Before embarking upon a journey of revenge, dig two graves.”
I planned to dig seven.
Her innocence stolen.
Her father murdered.
Six years ago, Juliette Portland was viciously attacked and left for dead by the very people she trusted. The men who killed her father and stole her innocence. The Gypsy Brothers.
Now, she's back.
And she's about to make them pay. Slowly. Painfully.
Seven graves for the seven men who wronged her so violently - but will one of those graves end up being her own?
Download Seven Sons now!
OR
Read the whole series for free in Kindle Unlimited!
In the mood for a dark and dangerous standalone instead? Don’t miss Gun Shy, my full-length dark romance with a twist you won’t see coming.
A girl with a darkness …
He comes to my room every night. Whispers sweet violence in my ear, one hand wrapped tight around my throat as we do things we shouldn’t.
Maybe it’s wrong when my knees fall open, and his mouth drowns my moans, but I’ll take the wrong. I’ll take whatever he gives me, because without him, I’m nothing.
Not every girl wants a happy ever after.
Some of us just want to survive.
Grab GUN SHY now!
Turn the page for a full rundown of my other books, and a SNEAK PEEK at GUN SHY …
Sneak Peek at Gun Shy
Chapter Excerpt
He sizes me up like I’m a piece of steak he’s about to cut into. His eyes drift from my face, down my torso, all the way to my feet and back again, and when he’s done I feel like he’s painted an oil slick from my head to my toes.
“Please,” I say listlessly.
“Ca-ssan-dra,” he mocks, the grin on his face a mile wide. He stands, the shotgun casually slung over one shoulder as he approaches me. I put my hand on the doorknob and twist, pulling it open an inch, but he is faster. He’s in front of me, using his free hand to slam the door shut again, leaving it there so I’m caged in by his thick arm.
I swallow thickly. Fuck.
He wrinkles his nose up, the grin still cemented to his face. “You. Stink. Like. Sex.”
My stomach drops. I want to throw up.
I’m so terrified, I can’t even speak.
Smirking, he takes his hand away and pulls a cell phone from his jeans. He dials and holds it to his ear, pulling a face as he studies mine. He’s entertained by my fear. He’s… what’s the word? He’s triumphant. He thinks he’s won, but I don’t even know what game we’re playing. I hear a voice on the other end of the phone, and really, who else would it be?
“I found your girl,” he says into the phone. “I think she’s got some things she’d like to tell you about who’s been sticking their dick inside her.”
Something distracts him. I see it in the way his eyes glaze over, the way he turns away from me ever so slightly. I’m trapped against the door, but if I can just get past him, I’ll be able to run for the kitchen.
There are sharp things in the kitchen. Knives.
Fuck. Whichever way this ends, there’s going to be blood.
I bring my knee up as hard as I can, hitting him in the groin. He’s got an erection. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. All that excitement from trapping me in my own home. He doubles over, groaning. “You fucking cunt!” he roars, dropping the phone. He reaches out to grab me, but I twist out of his grip, elbowing him in the side as hard as I can.
I run to the kitchen, my arm throbbing, my brain screaming. Knife! Knife?
Knife. I find the sharpest blade in the block, the one I accidentally cut myself with the other day, and brandish it in front of me. He charges at me, the shotgun still in his hand, aimed at the floor.
If I can just get the gun away from him.
If I can just get the gun.
If I can just.
Fuck.
“Give me that,” he says, holding out his hand like I’m a petulant child who grabbed a second helping of chocolate ice cream after dinner. I feign surrender, letting my wrist go limp as I hand the knife to him. He chuckles, his wide palm in striking distance.
I don’t hand him the knife. I slash the knife as hard as I can across his palm. Fuck you, you psycho. As if I’d hand you the only weapon I have.
He growls, his face beet red. “Ffffuuuuck!” he rages, spittle landing on my cheek. I step back, but not fast enough. He is biggerstrongerfaster than me, and his bloodied hand closes around my knife-wielding wrist so hard, I feel like the bone might snap. I gasp in a breath, fighting his vise-like grip as my wrist screams in agony. The pain is sharp, it’s warm, it’s coated in the blood that pours from his deep laceration all down my arm.
“You fucking cut me?!” he rages.
The knife clatters to the floor and he lets go of my twisted wrist. I turn to run as he lifts the butt of the shotgun above my head. There’s a sharp crack at the back of my skull, and a syrupy warmth that begins to ooze into my hair. It’s almost a relief, the way the world blurs and fizzes. I sink down to my hands and knees, like I’m praying to this murderous God above me. My vision tunnels as I begin to crawl, black haze eating at the edges of my sight. He kicks me in the ribs, hard enough that I land on my back. He steps over me, the leather of his boots warm through my jeans as he holds me in place, and he’s all I can see in the pinpricks of my sight. He’s not smiling anymore. What will he do to me?
“So that’s where you’ve been,” He marvels, holding a matchbox car up and spinning the wheels with his fingertip. “On a field trip. Looks like you got yourself some souvenirs.” I stare at the little car, a child’s toy, swallowed up in his big hand. The crude letters scratched into its underside are too far away for me to read, but I already know what they spell.
When I open my eyes, the pain in my head is so sharp I vomit a little. But I’m on my back, nowhere for the bile to go. I swallow it back down. It
burns.
I’m cold. My arms are stretched above me, bound together and aching, and when I try to move them nothing happens. I tug again, harder. Fuck. I’m tied to the table, but worse than that, there’s a length of rope or something equally strong running underneath the table, reaching from my wrists to each of my ankles. When I pull my wrists, the rope around my ankles tightens. If I try to kick my feet away from the table legs, it only drags the rope tighter around my wrists.
I tug at the ropes, twisting this way and that, but it’s useless. Every tug makes the rope a little tighter. I am bound, trussed up like a roast turkey ready to be carved for Thanksgiving. Above the refrigerator, the random collection of bobble-head toys and collectibles mock me with their unnaturally large eyes, their plastic grins, their ridiculous irony.
He appears at the edge of my vision. I turn my head just as he sits down on a dining chair and scoots toward me.
“You got me good,” he murmurs, staring down at his palm. “You’re a fucking bitch, you know that?” He laughs, but then his laughter turns to rage. He reaches his hand over and presses his bleeding palm to my mouth. Before I can clamp my lips together, warm blood breaches my mouth. It tastes like I just licked an ashtray full of pennies and dirt. I retch, trying to twist my head away as he digs his fingernails into my cheeks.
“You taste that?” he growls, standing as his chair falls away behind him with a crash. “You crazy bitch. That’s on you. That’s on you.”
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