by Maisey Yates
“Nothing more than a little bit of destruction,” he said.
“Why do I feel like I might have it all a little bit more together now that I’ve been destroyed?”
He chuckled, leaning in, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth. “That’s sex. It lies to you. It feels very good. And you find it’s very easy to justify a whole host of things to convince yourself that it’s okay to have it again.”
“Is that what we’re doing?”
“I would say so.”
“I’m okay with that,” she said, and she found that it was true.
“So am I.”
She turned her face then, melting into his embrace, melting into his kiss. She felt him growing hard beneath her, and arousal began to bloom in her stomach. She wanted him. For however long she could have him, whatever the reasons were. She wasn’t going to worry so much anymore. Not about the future, not about what he might think. For the first time, she was simply going to feel.
* * *
The dream was always the same. He looked up to see the cold, stone walls of the castillo. He felt so small lying there. And he knew that soon, he would come. In a cloud of rage and alcohol, he would come bringing pain. Last time so much that doctors had to be called in. Clever lies created to come up with reasons a five-year-old boy could be so badly wounded in the middle of the night. Falling down the stairs.
Yes, that was how he had broken his bones. That was why he needed stitches on his head. Lies. That was all they were. And soon, he would come for him again, and Cristian would have another of his accidents. Nothing was safe. Nothing ever was. Not even his bedroom.
And then, just as always, just as suddenly, the walls of the castillo morphed into the walls of his home in Barcelona. And he was standing outside his bedroom door, knowing that yet again, all he would find inside was terror.
He knew that Sylvia was in there. That she was already gone, and that there was nothing he could do to stop it. But even though in this scenario he knew that she was on the other side of the door, even though he knew what he would find, it didn’t erase the pain. And he still had to open the door. He pressed his hand against the smooth, cool surface and began to push it open.
“Cristian,” a voice pierced the darkness. “Cristian, wake up.”
He sat up, heaving a great breath, relieved to be staring out at the darkness, which was a much friendlier sight than what he saw in his dreams.
“Cristian,” Allegra said, reality finally piercing the haze of his sleep. “Are you all right?”
“I was sleeping,” he said, deciding he would allow her to lead the conversation. Obviously she had woken him for a reason, but he would not supply the reason before her.
“You were... You shouted. It woke me up.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, gritting his teeth. He had a feeling she was lying about what had happened. He touched his cheek, pulled his hand away and found his fingertips wet. Yes, she was lying to preserve his pride. The realization did something strange to his stomach. Made it feel tight. Made it difficult for him to breathe.
“I just... I didn’t want you to be...upset. I thought I should wake you up. Should I not have woken you?”
“It’s fine,” he said, looking at the clock to find that it was five in the morning. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, ignoring the tight, sick feeling in his throat.
“I didn’t know you had nightmares,” she said, her voice soft, her touch gentle on his shoulder.
“Everyone does occasionally.” He did all the time. Only worse in the past three years. So much worse since Sylvia had died, adding fuel to the fire, twisting the already hideous vision from his self-conscious into a montage of his life’s most difficult events.
“Of course they do.”
“I’m going to get up. Jet lag. Plus, it’s almost time enough.”
“I will too.”
“No,” he said, his tone a bit harsher than he intended. “No,” he repeated. “There’s no need for you to get up. You should go back to sleep. I’m sorry that I disturbed you.”
Even in the dim light he could make out the concern on her delicate face. “No,” she said, “I’m sorry that you were having... That you had that dream.”
He gritted his teeth. “It is nothing.”
“I’m sorry, Cristian,” she said, her voice soft but firm, “it didn’t sound like nothing.”
“It was a dream. Pieces of memory and things entirely made up twisted together so that they seem strange and unsettling. But it was just a dream.”
“It seemed like more than that.”
“It wasn’t. I don’t know if you’re trying to find some sort of softness in me, or perhaps find something that we can connect on? Something human about me, but I can only disappoint you by telling you there is very little about me that is human. I am not a soft man. I am not a kind man, and you know this, you have known me for a very long time. Do not start spinning fantasies about me now. This,” he said, sweeping his hand along her bare body, “could be a good thing between us. We must be together anyway, why not enjoy it? But you must not get your heart involved.”
“We’re at rock bottom already,” she said, her voice a hushed whisper, “remember? It doesn’t get harder than this.”
She looked so unbearably young in that moment. And he felt unbearably old. “Yes,” he said, “I did say that. But as we discussed, a man can find a great many excuses to justify finding physical satisfaction.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “We’re in this together.”
“If you say so.” He despised the way her expression changed. The fact that his dismissive statement had hurt her. But, still, he wouldn’t take it back. This was dangerous ground. Dangerous for her.
“We both said so,” she said, insisting.
Allegra. Stubborn to the end. At least, with him. So much fire, so much spirit. So much of it crackling beneath the surface of her skin. It was strange, because he had always thought of her as being defiant, and yet, when he truly let himself remember all those moments he had been angry with her, her responses had been very small. Very contained. It was only he that had sensed them. Had felt her anger simmering beneath the surface. Felt her discomfort when her parents would mention her impending marriage, had sensed her anxiety with it, her rejection of it as loud as a shout.
He wondered then if anyone else had even seen it?
“Stay in bed,” he said, insisting.
He got up, realizing that he had no clothes in her bedroom, because he had joined her in the shower naked, and then they had stayed naked through the entire night. But it was no matter to him. He walked out of the bedroom then, leaving Allegra alone. Part of him felt guilty for his treatment of her, but most of him realized it was the only thing to do. He had committed a great many sins in his life, and he had committed his greatest against Allegra. He would not compound his sins further. Not for his sake. He was already lost. No, he was going to act entirely out of concern for her.
If there was one thing he had to ensure, it was that she didn’t begin to believe that she cared for him.
The greatest cruelty of all would be allowing Allegra to love him.
CHAPTER NINE
THE NEXT FEW days in paradise felt much more like days serving a prison sentence with a taciturn warden.
In a cell with a gorgeous view. And the taciturn warden turned into a passionate lover at night. But basically otherwise the same.
He’d been different since the dream. And he never spent the night with her after they made love. Instead, he left her boneless and sated then walked out of the room. He didn’t go back to his bed, though. She’d checked. She was starting to wonder if the man slept at all.
He was shutting her out. That much was clear. And it hurt. It shouldn’t hurt. She knew what their situation was. They were having a child. One he didn’t even want a hands-on part in raising. She was to be his temporary wife to appease both her parents and the media, and beyond that what they did i
n the bedroom had nothing to do with anything.
It certainly had nothing to do with feelings.
But from the moment she’d met Cristian feeling had bloomed inside of her. Annoyance, for no reason at all. Simply because the sardonic lift of a brow or the glitter in his eyes felt like it was mocking her.
Because his jaw was too square, his lips too captivating.
Then later, the wedding ring on his finger far too bright. So golden and bold she could sometimes stare at nothing else when he sat at her parents’ dinner table. A reminder, even when his wife wasn’t there, that he belonged to someone. And that his wife belonged to him.
A realization that burrowed beneath her skin and itched and chafed and left her feeling scraped raw by the end of the evening.
He was always like that for her.
The idea she was suddenly supposed to try to feel nothing for him now they were sleeping together, now that they were having a child and planning to marry each other, was ridiculous.
He was right. People would come up with all kinds of excuses to continue existing in that hazy realm of pleasure they’d found together.
But excuses wore thin. And the reality began to show through the threadbare little lies, revealing the whole inconvenient truth beneath.
She blinked furiously, not wanting to think about it at all. It was like tugging the already fragile threads, showing more and more of the truth to herself and she despised it.
Why do you think you’ve always felt such big things for him? Why do you suppose that wedding ring was a physical pain to witness?
She wiped at a tear that tracked down her cheek and took in a shuddering breath. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter at all. Whatever she might feel, Cristian didn’t.
She laughed, a shaky, watery sound. He’d had to be tricked into an attraction to her. Had he known it was her the night of the ball...well, the night would never have happened.
But if she had known...if he’d been without a mask and he’d extended that hand to her, and she’d looked up and seen his gorgeous, familiar face looking down at her...she would have taken his hand. She would have gone down the corridor with him.
She would have given her virginity to Cristian knowing for a fact it was him, if instead of raising a brow and looking bored he’d put out his hand and asked her to go with him.
It was what she’d been waiting for. Always.
Pathetic. She was pathetic. And she was always waiting. Waiting for her parents to magically see that the marriage to Raphael wasn’t what she wanted. Waiting for Cristian to see that she wasn’t a child. Waiting and waiting and waiting and for what?
To feel constantly maligned when she’d never spoken out? What a great plan.
She had no plan. That much was clear. Not beyond sitting still and wishing someone would see the truth that burned within her like an ember. An ember she could feel, but they couldn’t see.
What good was it? It would just burn her alive.
Of course, that didn’t help her figure out what to do with Cristian now.
“We have to go.”
She turned around in her seat to see Cristian walking out of the house and toward the beach, his expression dark.
“What?” she asked. For a blinding, almost joyous moment, she imagined that he meant they had to go because he needed to have her now.
“We have to get on a plane. We need to get back to Spain.” She realized then that he looked different. Haunted.
“What happened, Cristian?”
“There was a fire at the castillo.”
“Your family home?”
“Yes,” he said, his expression unreadable.
“What about the...the farmland? The rental properties with your tenants and everything?”
He shook his head. “Everyone is fine. The only thing affected was the castillo itself.”
She wrapped her arms around herself. “What happened?” she asked.
“Wiring, as far as they know. It’s an old building, and electricity was added after the construction. Some of the wires, I believe, were original to the early 1900s. That proved an issue. I have to go and make sure that everything is being handled. I will leave you at the villa before I make my way there.”
She frowned. “No, I’m going with you.”
“There is no reason for you to accompany me.”
“Except that I want to.”
His expression turned ferocious. “You are so desperate to come and gawk at what has now become a ruin, as you called it when we first discussed it?”
“I’m so desperate to support you, Cristian. Forgive me for attempting to be a good...” She almost said wife. But she knew that was wrong. She could say fiancée, but that seemed wrong too.
“This is not a discussion, Allegra.”
“Of course it isn’t, Cristian. It never is with you. You speak, and you expect others to fall in line. And that has been the way that I lived my life. Obeying.”
“That’s funny, that does not seem to be my memory of you.”
“Yes,” she said, “and why is that? You seem to have this entire idea of who I am. Of the fact that I am constantly kicking against the goads, and yet, I cannot recall a single time I’ve ever actually done it. I fought with you, I never opposed my parents. I didn’t reject Raphael. So why is it you think I’m some sort of recalcitrant child?”
“I can feel it,” he said, “it burns inside you.”
His words struck her hard, fanned that flame inside of her that was there. That he knew was there. He saw it. Even when no one else did.
“Cristian...”
“Gather your things. We’re heading to the airport. And you are being dropped off at the villa.” Then he turned and walked back into the house, leaving her by herself.
She knew there would be no pushing him, at least, not now. But she wasn’t going to sit in silence anymore either. On that she was determined. She would figure out some way to handle Cristian. He wouldn’t like it, but right now, pleasing him wasn’t really her number one concern.
She simply wanted to be there for him. And if that meant being defiant, if it meant being open about certain feelings, then she was going to do it.
She was not going to sit in silence anymore.
* * *
Half of the castillo was gone, the centuries-old building, and home to more than one ghost, was reduced to a pile of rubble on one side. Of course, the building was old, and large enough that the half that was intact was still structurally sound. But there was no power in the place.
Cristian walked through the front door, looking to the left and seeing piles of stones that were still smoldering, and then to the right, where a staircase still curved around and up to a tower.
It was such a strange thing, to see his childhood home, this house of horrors, brought down in such a way.
He walked up the staircase slowly, brushing his fingertips over the stone walls that still haunted his dreams. He wondered if his father’s ghost had burned along with it. He supposed that was a very ambitious wish.
He kept on going until he made his way to his childhood room. Of course, it was one of the things that had survived. He found that perverse in more ways than one. That these very stairs, these walls, this room, had not had the decency to go up in smoke.
This floor where his small body had been broken, those stones he could still remember digging into his ribs, his spine.
Of course all of it still stood.
He crossed the empty space, going to stand in front of the small bed in the corner. Strange that it still had a place here. But then, he imagined no one had had any use for this room once he’d gone. His mother hadn’t lived here since then either.
He sat down on the edge, the mattress creaking beneath his weight. He let out a breath and looked up, looked at the gray stone walls and the wooden slats that ran across the ceiling. It was just like his dream.
He sat there and waited. Waited to feel a sinister presence. Waited to feel some kind
of terror. There was nothing. He supposed that was the greatest insult of all. That there was nothing here. No answer. Nothing to rage at.
There was only him.
He stood, letting out a hard breath and pushing his shirtsleeves up to his elbows. He was going to start digging through the rubble. Seeing what the fireproof boxes had protected. How much of the jewelry and various important papers had survived.
That was all he would find here. Relics. He sure as hell wouldn’t find answers.
Cristian spent hours sorting out what was trash, and what wasn’t. By the time he was finished, he was exhausted. He certainly could have afforded to bring in a cleanup crew. He could have had any number of people take care of it. But the castillo was his responsibility. It was a part of him. A part of his title.
And this, this strange sort of exhumation of the corpses of family treasure and history found in the midst of this rubble, felt essential to him.
He stood, wiping his forehead with the back of his arm, trying to keep the sweat from rolling down into his eyes.
He was covered in ash and soot, his clothing completely ruined. He reached up, beginning to unbutton his shirt. He might as well leave it here with the rest of the unsalvageable items.
“Cristian.”
He turned at the sound of his name and saw Allegra standing there, looking wide-eyed and far too delicious for his own good with her dark hair cascading around her shoulders, her slender figure showcased by a simple black dress.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, continuing to undo the buttons of his shirt before casting it down onto the ground.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking for buried treasure. What are you doing here?” he repeated.
“I decided to try and make myself the nuisance that you are so convinced that I am.”
“Why exactly did you decide to do that?”
“Because I’m a contrary beast,” she said, taking a step toward him. The breeze rippled across the dress, and he looked down, his breath catching in his throat when he noticed a slight, rounded bump where her stomach had once been flat. Evidence of the child she carried. His child.
His child, here in this abomination of a place.
