A Madness Most Discreet (Brothers Maledetti Book 4)

by Nichole Van

  I huffed. “No. It makes you sane.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled, head angled to the side.

  I smiled tightly in return.

  “Seriously. Thank you for listening, Tennyson. I really appreciate it,” she said.

  As she spoke, Olivia leaned forward and wrapped a hand over the top of mine, squeezing tightly.

  I flinched at the contact. Hard. Reflexive. I yanked my hands away from her, tucking them against my chest.

  I had been concentrating so hard on not touching her that the brief, innocent contact shocked my central nervous system—a jolt of electricity that sparked my involuntary reaction.

  Far too late, I realized that she had only meant the action in a friendly manner, a quick pat between supposed friends.

  The moment froze between us, a painful hesitation.

  Her with her palm still splayed on the table. Me recoiling away from her, hands clutched to my chest like an aghast socialite reaching for her pearls.

  Olivia winced and looked at her hand for a half a second before quickly pulling it back, turning her head in profile to me, looking again out the windows to the rain beyond. She blinked several times in rapid succession before swallowing.

  I had never felt like more of a jerk. Shame and frustration flooded me. How could I have hurt her like this?

  My body sagged, all of me canting toward her.

  Words tumbled from my mouth, angry and rushed, the emotions directed at myself.

  “Madonna mia, cara. Mi dispiace moltissimo. Sei l’ultima persona che vorrei mai fare del male. Desidero tanto toccarti, baciarti. Ti adoro. Sei tutto per me . . .”

  My voice faded as she cringed.

  . . . I am so sorry. You are the last person I would ever want to hurt. I long to touch you, to kiss you. I adore you. You are everything to me . . .

  Unfortunately, emphatic Italian has a way of always sounding upset, regardless of what is actually being said. My tone probably made her think my words were exasperated or frustrated.

  She deserved so much better than this.

  “Olivia, I am sorry—”

  “No, I’m the one who should be apologizing here.” She brought her gaze back to me, her unusual gray-brown eyes shiny but resolved. “I shouldn’t have touched you without permission. That was wrong of me.”

  “Please.” I shifted forward. “Olivia—”

  “No.” She held out a hand. “I dislike the whole double-standard that men shouldn’t touch women without their permission, but some women feel it’s perfectly fine to touch men uninvited. I clearly crossed a line there”—she motioned back and forth between us—“and treated you with less respect than you deserve.”

  What?!

  No!

  She continued on, “I’m sure you have this problem all the time and, because of that, you’re understandably extra sensitive about it.”

  I blinked, trying to follow her logic here. “Problem?”

  “Yeah. Strange women touching you without your permission, like you’re the produce aisle and they want to feel up your vegetables.”

  This woman.

  “My vegetables?” I choked.

  It sounded vaguely naughty, and I forcibly told myself not to think about Olivia touching my . . . vegetables. If she kept this up, I wasn’t sure I could survive this conversation without doing something foolish.

  She misunderstood my tone.

  “You know what I mean,” she replied. “You have a mirror. You’re an empath. Obviously, you understand that women find you extremely attractive.”

  She said the words primly with her lips pressed together.

  So . . .

  Yeah.

  She was right, but I was still struggling to understand how that applied to her and us.

  Was she saying that she found me attractive and that she struggled to not touch me as much as I struggled to not touch her?

  My nerve endings flared to attention at the thought. I mean, obviously she didn’t dislike me, but she hadn’t been overtly flirty with me, either.

  Just the thought of Olivia actively flirting with me . . .

  Whoa.

  My heart hammered in my chest.

  This was bad. Very bad.

  It was hard enough to resist touching her as it was. But knowing that she ached for me to touch her as much as I did . . .

  I knew I needed to let it go, leave it be—

  “So . . . uh . . . do you find me attractive?” I stared at the table as I spoke.

  “Tennyson.” A warning.

  “You want to touch my . . . vegetables?” I shot a glance at her.

  She was blushing.

  Hah! Blushing was good, right?

  “Stop.” Her brows drew down, glaring at me. “You know you have a pretty face.”

  I mock-sighed. “This ol’ thing? I’ll have you know that I worked hard for this.” I circled my finger in front of my face. “I spent a solid thirty-eight weeks in my mother’s womb and then, ya know, breathed for the last thirty-three years. Whatever looks I have, I have clearly earned.”

  A reluctant smile tugged at her oh-so-kissable lips before vanishing again.

  I hated to think of this woman doubting herself for even one moment.

  I had to give her what honesty I could.

  “Unlike me, you just stumbled into your awesome, anima mia. Your smarts and charm and humor—”

  “Please, Tennyson, you don’t have to say these things just to spare my feelings.” She cut me off, but the flatness of her tone destroyed me. “I obviously understand that I’m odd. Fluent Random, remember?” She waved her hand and gave a self-deprecating smile that didn’t remotely touch her eyes.

  My heart did this odd maneuver where it plunged to my feet while somehow simultaneously choking me.

  “Stop.” I returned her frown from earlier. “You’re fascinating and interesting, and I love the random twists of your mind.” My voice hung between us.

  She swallowed and traced a pattern on the table with her fingertip.

  “But . . .” She said the word wistfully.

  “But?” I repeated.

  She shrugged. Took in a deep, fortifying breath. “Just helping you along.” She finally lifted her eyes back to mine. Her gaze hung with sadness. “There was an unspoken ‘but’ at the end of your sentence.”

  Her statement was true. But . . . that didn’t stop indignation from flaring.

  “How can you be so certain I was going to follow ‘you’re fascinating and interesting’ with ‘but’?”

  She laughed. It wasn’t a happy sound.

  “This isn’t my first round with this situation, Tennyson.” Self-mockery and resignation flooded her tone. “Where should I start? My first boyfriend?”

  “Olivia—”

  “No, let me tell you all about him. Chad was cute and seemed sweet, always walking with me from health class to math. He asked me out to junior prom—great presentation with that, by the way, with a lip-synched video—anyway, prom was great, he was great. I learned from my friend, Katie, three days later that he actually was secretly dating Emily Smith. He had only asked me to prom because his dad was running for a state senate seat and wanted my mom’s endorsement.”

  It didn’t take a psychic to see where this conversation was headed.

  “The next guy, Oliver—yeah, I know ‘Oliver and Olivia,’ don’t get me started—” She waved a finger at me. “Anyway, Oliver seemed to like my odd, too, but he broke up with me after a month because his roommates had told him that he could, ‘do so much better than me,’ and he wanted to stop ‘dating below his gene-pool potential.’”

  I winced. “Olivia—”

  “You wanna hear how things went down with Michael?”

  My mouth snapped shut.

  I did indeed want to hear how things went down with Michael.

  “We dated for over a year and he was textbook perfect. I thought he genuinely cared about me.”

  “Please tell me you were the one who
broke up with him?”

  “Yes, I broke up with him—”

  “Thank goodness.”

  “—but only because I overheard him talking on the phone, telling the person on the other end that I was a total hag, and he hated having to deal with such a troll, but dating and marrying the oddball daughter of a senior senator was the price of political gain.”

  All the air whooshed from me, a gut-wrenching punch to my stomach.

  Holy hell!

  I was going to kill Michael.

  How dare he do that to her?

  But before I get a word past the emotions choking me, Olivia continued, “Basically, I’m used to being the lame-duck girlfriend. Sad but true. It’s been my shtick. So you pretending to be my boyfriend around Michael is just par for the course.” She wrinkled her nose at me. “You don’t need to do that anymore, by the way. I understood why you were my pretend boyfriend in the hospital, but there’s no reason to keep up the facade.”

  Her words were a gut-punch. “Does it bother you?”

  She paused. “No. But I am curious why.”

  You are truly my anima, the other half of my soul. I can’t help the force and depth of my love for you. I never want you to doubt that I care.

  Of course, I couldn’t say that. Not if I wanted to maintain physical distance between us.

  So I went with a less confessional explanation. “I hate how Michael oozes contempt and disbelief every time he’s around. It’s mean and bullying. I guess it’s just the competitor in me that wants to prove him wrong. I can’t believe he said those things about you. Don’t you dare believe him—”

  Olivia eye-rolled. “Michael’s behavior parallels all my other romantic interactions with men. I have a pretty good sample size going.” Olivia firmed her jaw and then snorted. “You wanna know the worst part?”

  I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the worst part. Everything so far made me want to wrap this woman in my arms and keep her there until she believed how much I adored her.

  She went on. “I loved Michael enough at the time that I didn’t even care that he was using me. If he had been honest with me about it, we would probably be married right now. I didn’t have a problem with him using me to further his career; I simply disliked that he wasn’t at least grateful about it.”

  She snorted, again, tone so bitter.

  I struggled to swallow past the lump in my throat. I violently hated every single person who had made Olivia Hawking doubt her own self-worth.

  Even worse, I detested that I was rapidly becoming one of them myself.

  I hated that she would paint herself like this—a woman who feels so unworthy of Love that she would settle for its less-sexy cousin, Gratitude.

  “Honestly, I’ve heard every single line over the years,” she continued, eyes turned away, tone wrecked. “Yes, I know my brain works differently than others. Yes, I know I’m odd and weird and say random things. Yes, I know my parents have money and influence, and I’m a convenient path to it all.” Her eyes whipped back to mine, voice rising. “So don’t tell me there isn’t a but in this conversation. Please. Just once, I’d love for a guy to be honest with me. I value truth.”

  Silence.

  Her words rang in the room, lingering.

  I scrambled mentally. What should I say?

  I couldn’t confess my love to her. She wouldn’t believe me; we had only known each other face-to-face for four days. That was way too soon to be confessing love or anything similar.

  I could tell her that I had been seeing her in my visions for months now. But that would inevitably lead to questions about what I had seen, which would lead to questions about us, which would lead to questions about kissing, which would lead to me having to tell her about my vision.

  Why did you tell me? Why couldn’t you keep your damn mouth shut—

  I gave her what I could.

  “Olivia.” I locked her gaze with mine, sincerity flooding my expression. “Please don’t change a single thing about yourself. I am not using you to get to your mother. I don’t give a damn who your parents are. If you believe nothing else, please believe this—you are perfect as you are, anima mia.”

  “But . . .” Her tone was decidedly resigned.

  She was right. There was a ‘but.’

  I hated the next words out of my mouth.

  Hated.

  Them.

  “But . . . I can’t pursue a relationship right now.”

  More silence.

  “Would you ever be in a place to pursue a relationship with me?” She laid the words carefully.

  More silence.

  I wanted to shout, YES!

  But in reality?

  “I don’t know,” I finally said. “I like you a lot”—I adore you—“and think you are a remarkable, fascinating woman that any man”—me and only me—“would love to have in his life.”

  That sadness returned to her eyes, a gloomy melancholy.

  She didn’t believe me. I could see it written clearly on her face.

  I couldn’t tolerate her looking at me like this.

  So I continued, “You have to believe me, Olivia. Please. I can’t go into all the details, anima mia. The current situation with my GUT . . . everything that’s going on . . . the timing is all wrong. I’m drawn to you and, because of that, I sometimes send mixed signals, but I can’t offer you anything more than friendship right now.”

  “Ouch,” she hissed. “Friend-zoned, just like that.”

  Argh!

  I was just making this worse.

  I gritted my teeth, hating myself. “It’s not like that—”

  “Is it because of something you saw in a vision?” Her eyebrows drew down, processing. “Do you see yourself with someone else?”

  I reared back, her question catching me off-guard. It shouldn’t have. I should have realized her mind would go there.

  My mouth flapped open, clearly fumbling with a reply.

  She chewed her lip, not missing my reaction.

  “Well, that’s my answer, isn’t it?” She sat back. “What did you see?”

  “Olivia—”

  “Do you see yourself with someone else?” A pause. “Or do you see me? Does the daemon finally do me in?”

  “You’re not going to die.”

  That I could say emphatically. I would not allow that to happen.

  She leaned forward, more insistent. “I have a right to know, Tennyson, particularly if it’s about me.”

  Zach’s bloody face rose.

  Why did you tell me? Why couldn’t you keep your damn mouth shut?

  You said I’d be okay.

  I couldn’t hurt Olivia like I had Zach.

  But you’re hurting her already, that insidious voice whispered. You don’t deserve to live.

  My breathing short-circuited, my hands tingling, my tongue numb.

  Jump. Break the chain.

  Free your brothers and yourself.

  It’s your destiny—

  No!

  Stop! No!

  My chest heaved. I swallowed convulsively, fighting against the horror pounding inside.

  I shook my head. Once. Twice.

  “Please, Olivia.” My hands twitched, aching to reach for her. “Please just let it go. Please don’t push me like this.”

  I did reach for her hands then. I couldn’t hold myself back.

  My palms stretched on the table, reaching toward hers.

  “I’m so sorry,” I murmured over and over. “Just so sorry, Olivia. Your friendship is incredibly important to me. Don’t ever doubt it. I don’t have many friends, so it’s hard to lose one of them. Please tell me I haven’t blown this completely.”

  Something in my tone must have reached her. My desperation and despair.

  She studied my hands, outstretched on the table. She looked down at her own, as if measuring the distance between them.

  “Do you really mean that?” she asked, eyes still on my hands.

  I winced. And then nodd
ed. I didn’t look at her, afraid I wouldn’t be able to keep all my adoration inside.

  “I trust you, Tennyson.” She said the words clearly. Like they were a promise.

  A pause.

  “Please don’t break that trust.” Her voice the barest whisper.

  “I won’t.”

  She hesitated and then, leaning forward, slid her hands into mine, her palms grazing my skin.

  Her touch was wildfire, igniting all my nerve endings and flaring scalding heat up my arm. How could something so simple as brushing her hand cause this reaction?

  I rubbed our fingers together, my eyes focused on our joined hands.

  “Is this okay?” She squeezed my fingers.

  Hell, yes.

  I nodded again. My heart swelled, choking me again. “Thank you.”

  “Friends then?” she asked. “I get to be your . . . anima.”

  I barely held back my gasp at her words.

  “Absolutely,” I choked. “You will forever be my anima.”

  Always and forever.

  I lifted my head, meeting her gaze. Her expression looked suspiciously like resignation. Like she had expected our conversation to end in this place from the beginning.

  And I sat there, helpless to do anything to ease her sadness in any real way.

  The image of Olivia being torn from my arms and cast before the black monster flashed through me. The dark sword piercing her chest, blood pooling around her crumpled body.

  I took in a ragged breath. I refused to back down from my resolve. I could be stronger than my attraction to her.

  Friendship was the only option. Any other path led to her death. And a living unkissed Olivia was worth the loss.

  “Do you have any firm plans for today?” I asked.

  “Just holding hands with you.”

  “Good. That means I can torture you with the important stuff.”

  That got a better smile from her. “Torture me?”

  “Yes. With vital questions like, what TV channel doesn’t exist, but really should?”

  She froze and then gave a breathy laugh. “Well, that one is easy. The PugLife Channel. A network dedicated to pugs and all their shenanigans.”

  “Seriously?”

  “You clearly need to know me better.” Her sparkling laughter rained glitter as it sailed around the room.

  TWENTY THREE

  Olivia