by Eva Ashwood
Ciro pulls into the garage, and I don’t respond. As soon as he pulls the key from the ignition, I slide out of the car behind Lucas, then make my way out of the garage and head quickly up the stairs toward my room. I can feel them watching me as I go, and I know my brush-off has hurt them.
But what am I supposed to do?
What am I supposed to think?
Lies are still lies, no matter how prettily they’re wrapped in promises.
Where does life go from here?
I stare out my bedroom window, the first time I’ve bothered to look in the short time that I’ve been here. It’s dark, so I can’t see anything other than the surrounding large houses buried in shrubs and private gates, and the twinkling lights of the city in the distance. Compared to being in the heart of the city, this private neighborhood is almost eerily quiet.
Will this be the view for the rest of my life?
The thought is miserable. I may not be tied to that bed anymore, but it doesn’t make me any less of a prisoner. Hell, it almost makes it worse. At least tied to the bed, I had something to fuel my anger.
Being able to wander around the house and do as I please makes me feel too close to comfortable. Almost normal.
It makes me almost believe I could be here by choice.
The phone I stole from that woman is gone, so my contact with the outside world is limited to what I get from the guys and their connections, but is that really contact with the outside world? The mafia is its own world, so far separated from the monotonous lives of people coming and going from their jobs, marrying their sweethearts, having kids and growing old.
The life I almost had.
Would I have liked it?
I think I know the answer to that question, but the truth is too frightening to face right now.
Because the truth is, I could be here by choice. If I just let go.
The back of my neck prickles, and I glance toward the doorway.
“Shit!” I jump, bracing myself on the window sill.
Ciro leans against the door frame, watching me. He crept in so quietly I didn’t hear, and when he sees my wide eyes, he mutters a soft apology, grimacing. When he backs away, turning as if to leave, I step forward.
“No, please.” I’m sick of being alone. My thoughts are a goddamn merry-go-round, and I want off this fucking ride. “Did you need something?”
Not answering, he steps hesitantly into the room, moving to sit on the bed. I stay at the window sill, watching him with wariness. I know he wouldn’t come up here without a purpose, but I also know what usually happens when Ciro and I are alone.
Bad things.
Dangerous things.
You understand me.
It’s a different type of thing than it is with any of the other guys, a different type of danger. This is an emotional danger, a danger of being sucked into his dark little world in hopes of healing him, letting him heal me in the process. It’s not like Hale, a burning, maddening passion. It’s not like the twins, a flirtatious temptation. It’s different. Unique to just Ciro.
I swallow away the emotion that rises in my throat. He has a strange way of sensing when I need someone to be there. Even if he’s not talking, he knows how to listen.
“I know…” He hesitates, swallowing. His fingers tap out a rhythm on the mattress, and he watches them instead of me. “I know what it’s like to feel trapped.”
Curiosity blooms in my chest, but I don’t trust myself to ask questions. He’ll talk if he’s ready, I just have to wait for him. The fact that he’s even opening up to me is huge for him, and I know pushing him for information is only going to push him away.
“A while after you left, there was an upstart gang who was giving us trouble,” he says, his voice emotionless. “It was supposed to be in and out. We didn’t think they were so strong, so well-established already. But they were. They didn’t have much in the way of resources, but they had a leader who was ruthless and smart as hell.”
My feet carry me to the bed without thought, and I sit down next to him. I want to crawl onto his lap and wrap my arms around him, but I resist. Instead, I keep a reasonable distance between us, staring at my feet and listening.
Not looking.
Not touching.
Letting him have the space he needs to speak freely.
“They…” I hesitate. “They took you.”
It’s not a question so much as it is a thought spoken out loud. I’ve slowly been piecing together theories, bits of information I’ve picked up that support this conclusion. After the incident in the car when I pushed him too far and Hale hauled me out into the woods, I learned not to be so stupid as to ask questions. But I still caught hints of what happened. Filling in the blanks, it’s easy to guess now.
Ciro nods. I catch the movement in my periphery.
“They tortured me,” he says quietly. “Wanted me to give up what I knew about the Novak Syndicate. They knew I was high enough up on that ladder to know a lot. They tried to break me, but I didn’t let them. I learned to shut it out.”
My heart twists. Just like you’re still shutting everything out.
“It’s hard to go back to normal after something like that.”
His words are blank. Empty. Just a statement of fact, unattached from the pain that should accompany words like that. He rubs the tattoos on his knuckles without realizing it, drawing my attention to the design.
He didn’t have those tattoos when I left. He got them sometime in the intervening years, and I wonder if they were inked on his skin after his rescue from the gang that captured him.
“Ciro,” I murmur quietly, trying to keep my own voice even like his is. I worry that any show of emotion will upset him, but it’s hard to keep my feelings under control. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. No one should have to go through that.”
I don’t need him to tell me the details. I can guess at parts of it, and I have a feeling there are parts I’m not emotionally equipped to hear about.
There are aspects of what he’s been through that he might not even remember. Like he said—he’s learned to shut it out. I may not know exactly what he’s been through, but after everything I’ve been through, I can begin to understand the battle he fights every single day. The battle he fights with his mind, with the memories.
He can’t run from what happened to him. It will always be there, no matter how much he tries to hide.
The repercussions of his torture will last forever.
“It doesn’t matter now,” he says quietly. He turns his head a little, looking at my feet instead of his own. “I don’t need you to feel sorry for me. I just wanted you to know… I understand what it’s like. To wish you could change things. To feel trapped.”
Anger burns through me, consuming my body and filling my veins.
Anger for his sake. Anger against the people who did this to him, anger for the person they took away—the quiet, bookish boy I once knew. Ciro was always steady, but now he teeters on the edge, fighting a battle every single day that none of us will ever understand.
My heart breaks, the pieces catching in my throat and stomach, making it hard to breathe.
“Ciro…”
I say his name again, because I don’t know what the fuck else to say.
Those steel-gray eyes meet mine, shattered and broken to their very depths.
Goddammit. I hate how much he hurts, even if he tries to hide it. I hate that he tore open a wound inside himself just to try to make me feel better, to let me know I’m not alone.
But I love him for it a little bit too.
I can’t help myself. I should keep the wall up between us, for both his sake and mine.
But fucking hell, I can’t.
So I lean forward and press my lips to his.
6
Ciro
When Grace’s lips touch mine, my body jerks back, flinching away from the touch on instinct.
Ever since I was captured, all touch has been unwelcome.
My fight-or-flight instinct exists on steroids now, on a hair-trigger and out of my control.
My heart protests, urging me to pull her closer. It pounds an insistent drumbeat in my chest, and I wish I was fucking normal like Hale or Zaid or Lucas.
Grace stiffens too, freezing in place when she feels my response. “I’m sorry,” she mutters, clearing her throat.
My jaw clenches so tightly it aches. My hands ball into fists, blunt fingernails digging into my palms. I hate the men who tortured me more than I ever have in this moment. They can have my fucking past, but I hate them for stealing my present. My future.
I’m fucked up. Broken.
I managed to step into the shower with her when she broke down the night Brian tried to kill her. In that moment, nothing mattered more than soothing Grace—not even my demons.
But now? My body is locked up, my muscles frozen and stiff as they battle the instinct to push her away or run. If she were causing me pain, I might not even notice the proximity. It’s the gentleness that fucking kills me. I don’t know how to handle it.
Grace doesn’t pull away from me, though. She waits, lingering next to me. Her breath brushes against my lips; gentle exhales tease the darkness inside of me, making it panic. My demons don’t want to die, they don’t want to be captured by the light, so they put up a bigger fight, trying to force her away.
Threat. She’s a threat. Threat.
People aren’t easy for me anymore, not that they ever were. I don’t know how to deal with them, and I don’t think they know how to deal with me. But not Grace. She somehow manages to slip between the cracks in my armor, breaking through the barriers around my heart not with violence but with patience.
I don’t know how fucking long we stay like this, frozen in place with our lips almost touching. When I think about it, my heart kicks in my chest, panic swelling inside me like a tidal wave.
So I stop thinking about it. I ignore the discomfort burning through my veins like stinging acid and focus on one of my favorite things in the world—Grace’s scent. It’s an alluring mix of jasmine and sandalwood. As addictive as a drug, sweet and complex. Just like her.
I binge on her scent, drawing in huge lungfuls of it. And with every breath I draw, my body relaxes a little.
Maybe she senses the change in me, because she finally leans forward again, taking my lips with hers, kissing me with a tenderness that threatens to break me. It’s not a passionate kiss so much as it is a comforting one—for both of us.
Threat.
I fight the thoughts creeping up my spine that make me want to push her away, the darkness that tries to force her away from me. With Grace, maybe it can be different. It doesn’t have to be the same as it’s been for the past few years.
With Grace, I want more. I want to be better.
She’s soft, impossibly soft. So soft it makes my chest ache. Her gentle lips and her smooth skin, the palms of her hands and the tips of her fingers are almost too much for me, too good and pure for me.
Threat.
Something simmers beneath her kiss as she deepens it, and my cock twitches. My hands want to explore her body, touch, taste, feel, but they stay fisted on my thighs. I don’t know what to do, and the panic of that realization makes me lock up again.
Threat. Get away. Threat.
I tear my lips away from hers, swallowing. My heart races inside my chest, and I fight to catch my breath, ashamed of my own weakness, my own faults.
Fuck. I was content with being broken until Grace showed up. It was all I could remember, all I knew. The person I was before I was captured was so far away, an entirely different man. I didn’t even know what it meant to go back to being that person, didn’t even want to try. I’ve grown numb to everything around me, my days blending into each other and passing quickly.
I haven’t had sex since before my torture. I had no desire to even look at a woman, let alone touch one or fuck one. With Grace… dammit, I want her so much. But I’ll fucking embarrass myself if I try.
My fingers curl and uncurl as I clench my jaw. Grace sighs and moves to pull away from me, and a frustrated growl pours from my throat.
She stops. “Do you not want me to go?”
I shake my head, because as fucked up as I am, I know I don’t want that. I can’t stand the thought of losing Grace.
“Do you want me to stay?”
I turn my head a fraction of an inch to meet her gaze. Then I nod, another tiny movement.
She watches me for a moment, her gaze serious. Then she stands up, leaving me sitting on the edge of the bed. My heart seems to slow, acid pumping through my veins. Of course she doesn’t want to stay. She’s been reaching out to me ever since we got to Chicago, being kind and sweet even though we were holding her prisoner. I’ve tried to let her in, tried to break down the part of myself that keeps me walled off.
But every step forward I take sends me two steps back.
I’ll never be fucking normal, and she knows it.
I clench my jaw, waiting for her to tell me to leave.
The words don’t come though. Instead, she moves to stand in front of me, so close that our legs are almost touching. Her soft blonde hair cascades around her face as she drops her head a little, looking down at me.
“I’m not going anywhere, Ciro. Not today. Not tomorrow.”
Her voice is warm. I know the idea that she can never leave still hurts her, but right now, I don’t hear any of that pain. Her words don’t sound like a curse or plea. They sound like a promise.
I don’t know what to say, so I just stare up at her. And when she drops to her knees in front of me, my gaze tracks every inch of her movement. Now I’m the one looking down at her, and the sight of her kneeling before me, her hazel eyes soft and sweet, makes my blood stir.
My cock twitches in my boxers, a pathetic attempt to wake up. It’s been so fucking long that just the feel of my balls tightening makes my whole body stiffen. My breath hitches, and Grace’s pink tongue darts out to lick her lips before she rests her hands on my thighs.
The heat of her palms sears me through the fabric of my pants, and my muscles go rigid beneath her touch. I clench my jaw, doing my best to stay still as she looks up at me through her lashes.
“Is this okay?”
I nod. I can’t fucking speak.
A small smile curves her lips, making her look like a fucking angel. There’s something else in her eyes too though. Something a lot less sweet and a lot less innocent. It calls to a part of me I’ve almost forgotten exists, making me want to pull her onto my lap and kiss her until her sweet arousal soaks through both her pants and mine.
But I don’t move. I just watch her as she rakes her fingernails gently down my legs. The feel of it sends electric shocks through my body, and my cock twitches again, pressing against my fly as it starts to get hard.
Fuck. Oh, fuck.
I can’t get my breath under control, and my nostrils flare as I try to keep from panting. My jaw is clenched so tight it fucking hurts as sensations overwhelm me.
“You’re so handsome, Ciro.” Grace’s gaze moves up my torso and chest before finding my face. She’s breathing a little harder too, her perfect chest rising and falling as her nails trace mind-blowing patterns on my legs. “Has anyone ever told you that?”
I shrug. I can barely remember my own name right now, let alone what someone else has said to me. Back before my capture, I hooked up with girls from time to time. None of them seemed to think I was unattractive, but none of them looked at me the way Grace is looking at me right now either.
A flicker of sadness moves through her eyes at my response, and she puts her hands on my knees, pressing my legs open so she can move closer to me. “Well, you are. You’re one of the most beautiful men I’ve ever seen. Your tattoos. Your gorgeous jawline. Your lips. But more than that, it’s your eyes. It’s what I see inside them. It’s you.”
She’s settled between my legs now, her fingers moving higher up my thighs. She l
eans forward and presses a kiss to my stomach through my shirt, and a low noise pours from my throat before I can stop it.
Grace looks up again, biting her lip. “Is this okay?”
I nod, swallowing hard.
With my permission, she does it again, holding on to my thighs as she peppers kisses over my stomach. I’m wearing what I usually do—a t-shirt and jeans—and I suddenly hate the thin fabric that keeps her lips from pressing against my skin. It feels like electricity is shooting through my body, and even as it burns, I want more. I crave more.
Grace hums softly, a low, contented noise, and another jolt travels straight to my cock. It’s straining against my pants now, pressing painfully against my zipper as it tries to get closer to Grace. Closer to the source of everything good.
She pulls away from me a little, glancing down. Then she adjusts her position, moving backward a few inches so she can drop her head. I tense, the muscles in my neck straining as I feel the warmth of her breath on my shaft. My feet are pressing hard against the floor, my hips straining, and when she kisses the bulge of my cock, I almost come in my pants.
I can’t hide the raggedness of my breath anymore. I’m sucking in air as my hands fist the blankets at my side, and when I let out a grunt, Grace tilts her head, finding my gaze again.
“Is this okay?”
Fuck. Yes.
I nod.
“Does it feel good?”
Good isn’t the right word to describe what I’m feeling right now, but I don’t know what the right word is, so I just nod again. I don’t want her to stop. My entire body feels like it’s been turned inside out, all the emotions and sensations that usually lie dormant inside me rising up like a wave.
She kisses my shaft again, and it jumps in response, my hips jerking toward her face. She smiles, making another quiet, pleased noise. Then she continues to explore me, slowly and carefully. Keeping her movements slow and her touch gentle, she slides one hand up my thigh, using her fingers to trace the line of my cock along with her mouth.
