I don’t understand.
He takes my face in his hands, and I close my hands around his forearms. Instinct with him. He draws me toward him and brings his mouth to my cheek, and he kisses me.
A traitor’s kiss.
A murderer’s kiss.
I look up at him when he pulls away. After a moment, he hands me off to Cash who leads me out the door. I hear his father’s voice before the door closes.
“What happened to Arthur’s boys? Why aren’t they here?”
“Arthur Clementi will represent his family tonight.”
28
Cristina
We don’t go back to the apartment in the city.
After the whirlwind day I’ve had, I’m driven back to Upstate New York, and I’m so tired, my mind exhausted from trying to make sense of my new circumstances, that I fall asleep for the time it takes to get there. I’m disoriented when Cash opens the door and the overhead light and cool air wake me.
I sit up, rub my eyes. My hands come away smeared with black.
He had me made up for just those few minutes. Hours in that chair having my hair and makeup done for those moments.
Cash doesn’t touch me as I slide out of the SUV. I wonder if that’s on purpose, considering he’s barely allowed to look at me, according to Damian.
The dress under which I’m naked feels like nothing. Makes me feel strange, light as I wrap my arms around myself and enter through the Gates of Hell into the dark, empty house.
Is anyone here apart from Cash and the other soldiers? Elise probably. His father at least is not. He’s still at the party.
Party.
What the hell kind of party was that?
The door closes behind me, startlingly loud. It’s chilly inside, and I shiver. The fireplace is empty. The only lights that are on are along the stairs.
I’m alone. No one is locking me in a room. Aren’t they afraid I’ll run away? No, not with the army outside, and the woods and empty roads between me and any living person who might help me.
Exhausted and defeated, I walk to the stairs and up toward my room. I don’t know where else to go or what else to do.
I’m alone.
That reality hits me. In a way, Damian keeping such tight control over me has given me boundaries, walls to contain myself in. It’s the strangest feeling. Walls to exist in.
Now I’m back in this dark place in this white gown that floats like air around me making me feel like a ghost.
Like I don’t exist.
And I don’t understand.
My eyes are open, but I don’t see. I’m in my head and make my way from memory through the dimly lit corridors trying not to think about the darkness, the emptiness. The utter stillness.
I’ve always welcomed silence, but tonight, as much as I have always chosen to be alone over company, this particular quiet is unwelcome.
As I near my room, I have a moment of panic.
What if the door is locked? What if Damian locked it, and I can’t get inside?
Would you rather I keep you in a cage?
A sense of urgency grips me as I pass into the narrower corridors leading to my room. I am walking toward it without being made to. And I’m not afraid of being locked in. In this house, it’s the unlocked doors you have to watch out for.
The clicking of my heels echoes off the walls as I hurry along. When I reach my room, I’m out of breath. I don’t hesitate to try the doorknob and only feel relief when it turns, and I am able to push the heavy door open.
Relief at stepping into my cage.
I close the door and lean against it. I don’t think about the house or how big it is. About what may be lurking in the empty rooms or the dark corners. I just exhale with relief.
Outside, a cloud clears the moon. It’s eerie how the shadows move over the tops of the trees.
I walk toward the window to look out, slipping out of my shoes as I go. I make no sound once I’m barefoot.
It’s black again when I reach the glass, which is cool to the touch. And outside is empty. Only darkness and my own pale face. I begin to pull the pins from my hair, dropping them on the floor around my bare feet. The hairdresser cut another inch off my hair to even it out. I asked for shorter, actually, not wanting to leave anything for Damian to grab hold of, but she refused. He probably instructed her on what he wanted.
I brush the bangs over, and they fall back into place. I haven’t had bangs since I was a little girl. I like them.
My gaze falls on the ring and anxiety fills my belly. I turn away from the window and go to the bed. Even though I slept for the whole ride, I’m exhausted.
Pulling the covers back, I slip beneath them, not bothering to take off my dress. I just want to sleep. I think it’s my body’s reaction to the shock of the day.
My belly tight with a feeling of dread, I draw the comforter up over my shoulder. I listen as rain begins to fall, soft drops tapping lightly against the window. It smears the glass as it falls.
It’s been raining a lot these weeks. In the city. Here.
It fits in this dreary place. This dreary time.
I close my eyes, grateful that sleep comes quickly, and pray for a dreamless night. And some part of me wonders if it would be better if I didn’t wake. Easier for all this to be over.
I’m not strong enough to fight Damian Di Santo. I don’t have the stamina to keep up with him. And I’m not nearly strong enough to beat him at his twisted game.
What would it even mean to beat him? To win? Walking away from here? From him? Back to my life in New York City. A student.
No.
That’s gone.
And I shudder with the realization of that finality.
My life before Damian Di Santo is gone.
There is no walking away. Or if there is, it’s not walking back into my old life. If I do walk away, if I manage to somehow survive him, I will be a different person from the girl I was when this began.
I don’t wipe away the tear that falls but hug the blankets closer. Rain falls more heavily, and I let sleep carry me to oblivion, but it’s not a restful one.
Music.
Piano.
I know the tune, but I haven’t heard it in a long time.
I’m a little girl again, walking down the hall of our house barefoot and wearing a simple, cotton nightgown. I’m holding Sofia in my arms.
The music grows louder.
He’s listening to it. He’s in the study listening to it. It’s so sad, the tune and I know something is wrong.
But when I get to the office door I stop to look around because I realize I’m not at home. This isn’t our house. This isn’t the door to my father’s study. And as I look down at myself, I realize I’m not a little girl.
And it’s not Sofia I’m holding. It’s Patty. Past and present are confused.
Something crashes and I jolt awake, gasping for breath as I bolt upright.
Lightning. The rain has turned to a lightning storm and water pounds against the glass.
I forgot to turn on any lights.
When I swing my legs off the bed, Patty falls to the floor. I must have been holding him. I bend to pick him up, jumping again at the next strike.
Just a storm I tell myself.
I hurry to the lamp across the room and switch it on. At least the room isn’t so dark now.
I walk back to the bed and am about to climb in when something outside catches my eye. Light. Like a flashlight. Like the time I saw Damian through the window that night he disappeared into the woods.
But when I get to the window, I see that beam of light not disappearing into the thicket of trees but returning to the house.
Damian?
What time is it? How long have I been asleep and is he back?
He’s wearing a coat with the hood up, but I’m pretty sure it’s him. It’s the way he moves. When did he get back? And why is he out there in this storm?
I walk to the door and open it, half-expecting it
to be locked if he’s back, but it’s not. I want to know what he’s doing. What’s out there. I want to know where his room is, where he hides away.
So I step into the hallway. I don’t close the door behind me but hurry down the corridor that leads toward the main part of the house.
But when I’m at the landing, I hear something that stops me.
That same music that I heard in my dream.
I turn to look behind me at the darker corridor. This house is like a maze. It’s coming from somewhere in there, where I’d gone back to the other night too. When I’d thought I’d heard something.
A glance downstairs shows me everything is dark.
I turn to face that hallway my heart racing.
It’s faint, the music, but I’m not imagining it. And before I make a conscious decision to do anything, my legs are already carrying me toward it.
I only realize then that I’m barefoot. My feet are freezing on the stone floor, but I hurry along, quiet as a mouse. I take care this time to look down. To make sure I don’t crash into whatever it was I’d crashed into the other time.
The music grows infinitesimally louder, and I follow it, slowing down a little as I near its source.
I reach a door that seems out of place. It’s not like the other doors. This one’s newer. And I see a faint strip of light beneath it.
My heart is in my throat as I reach for the door handle, and I turn it slowly, so slowly that if anyone were on the other side of it, they wouldn’t see or hear.
No locked doors in this house tonight.
It may be better if some of them were, I think, because a sense of foreboding fills me. Fear of what I’ll find on the other side.
I push the door open and peer inside, then step in. I was right. The door blocked part of the hallway for some reason. And the light that I saw is coming from deeper inside and the music I heard is louder here.
Should I call out?
I don’t.
And I don’t close the door behind me as I walk on toward the sound coming from one of the half-dozen closed doors here. I know which it is, though. The one facing me at the very end. The one with the light beneath.
When I get to it, I listen. Nothing but that music, and it sounds almost like a scratched record would sound.
I should turn back around.
I should go straight back to my room and pretend I never even heard it.
But all I need to do is glance back to know I won’t. I’m too curious. More curious than afraid. And that thought encourages me.
Maybe I’m not as much a coward as I thought. And I’m going to need my strength, I’m going to need to be fearless if I’m going to have a shot at fighting Damian.
Because if I don’t fight him, then I’ve accepted my fate.
I look down at my finger. At the ring that feels like a weight. And I steel my spine and turn the door handle, heart racing as the door gives. I push it open, not hiding now.
But the room is empty.
It’s large, more than twice the size of mine. And this one hasn’t been cleaned in ages because dust covers every surface, and at the farthest end stands an old Victrola, and the record is spinning, scratching out the classical tune I heard in my dream.
I wrap my arms around myself at the sudden chill. Is it colder in this part of the house?
At least it’s not a ghost who put the record on. In the inches of dust, I can see exactly the path someone took to get to it.
Damian?
Why would he put the music on here, then go outside? That makes no sense. Is this his room? No, again, makes no sense. Given the dust, this room hasn’t been used in ages although the furnishings are modern-ish.
I step inside, leaving my own prints in the dust that collects between my toes. The bed is similar to mine with intricately carved wooden posts. I trace the pattern, and my finger comes away dirty.
The music takes a dip. I’m not sure I’ve heard a sadder tune.
I look around. A dresser, books on a tall shelf, a reading area, a desk, two doors leading off into other rooms, and at the center a wrought-iron window almost as large as mine but not quite in front of which stands the low dresser where the Victrola sits.
The light I saw is coming from the lamp beside it. A Tiffany lamp. I’ve never liked those. For some reason, they always give me the creeps.
I walk toward the dresser to see that one of the drawers is slightly ajar. I know I shouldn’t, but I pull it open. Immediately, I sneeze at the cloud of dust I release.
It’s a small sneeze, but here, in this room with its eerie Victrola playing the strange tune, in this ghost room, it sounds loud and almost echoes off the walls.
When the dust settles again, the music stops.
The record takes two more revolutions, but the arm lifts automatically, and I realize it’s not an old Victrola but a newer one made to look old.
The hair on the back of my neck stands on end then, and my breath catches in my throat because there’s a shift in the air.
I don’t move.
Don’t breathe.
I don’t lift my gaze from the Victrola because I think if I do, I’ll see something in the reflection of the wrought-iron glass.
And whoever is here, it’s not Damian.
I know his scent now. I know how my body reacts when he’s near me, and this isn’t it. It’s not him.
Someone takes an audible breath behind me.
A ghost?
No.
Ghosts don’t breathe.
They don’t feel warm like a body feels warm when it’s at your back, close enough to touch but not.
I’m trembling, my hands moving to my arms to warm myself. Protect myself. I turn my head slightly, still not daring to raise my lashes, to look up. Terrified to.
He makes a sound then. A low mmmm from deep inside his chest.
I whimper at the rumble too close to my ear.
“Are you lost, little girl?” comes the deep voice too much like Damian’s but not his. Not him.
And when I lift my gaze and face him, my mouth opens on a scream that catches in my throat as I stare up at him. At this man whose face is half hidden by shadow who’s wearing the coat the man outside had worn. The man I’d mistaken for Damian.
Black eyes meet mine, and one corner of his mouth lifts into a wicked grin. That scream finally comes. It rips through me, and I feel his hand graze my arm as I run just barely making it past him.
I scream and run blind, tripping to look back at him.
At this monster.
He stands there and that grin grows wider. I run and just as I turn to look ahead of me, I crash into something hard and immobile. I bounce off, stumbling, falling back before arms close around me.
Damian.
Relief.
I bury my face in his chest and can’t get close enough because I can’t get far enough from the monster with the face that looks like Damian’s but not. With the voice that sounds like his but isn’t.
And I think about what Damian told me about the other monster in this house.
I thought he meant his father, but maybe there’s more than one.
Because a monster stands behind me.
I look up at Damian’s face. I want to ask him why he’s not running. Why we’re not racing away.
But what I see isn’t fear.
It’s recognition.
I open my mouth to speak, to tell him we need to move, but I watch his eyes narrow, see them darken. See his lips stretch into a cold smile.
I hear the man behind me breathe.
“Damian,” he says.
Damian’s grip tightens, hurting me. His chest rises as he takes a breath in and an eternity passes before he speaks, his words shocking me.
“Welcome home, Brother.”
***
Thank you for reading Unholy Union. I hope you love Damian and Cristina.
You can read the conclusion to their story in Unholy Intent!
Thank you for reading
Unholy Union! I hope you love Damian and Cristina. Their story concludes in Unholy Intent, the final installment in the Unholy Duet.
Monsters don’t often look like monsters on the outside.
Forced to marry a man I should hate, I’m now bound to Damian.
I sometimes wonder what he sees when he looks at me. Deer in headlights, I guess.
What I see is clear.
Darkness.
Desire.
Carnal want.
A man with too much experience.
The day he took me he told me I belong to him. On our wedding night he proved I did. And I believe him when he says he’ll keep me safe because he won’t let anyone touch what’s his.
But I can’t forget what he is. Can’t forget the things he’s done.
And no matter what, I can’t let myself fall in love with him.
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Also by Natasha Knight
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Dark Legacy Trilogy
Unholy Union: Unholy Union Duet Book 1 Page 20
