Page 2 of Love Me (Touch of Death 3)
After a couple of hours of restless sleep, I get out of bed. The first pink-hued rays of dawn creep through the glass balcony doors. I slide them open and close my eyes, inhaling the chilled morning air. I linger outside and watch the sun rise high into the sky until the heat sears my skin and has a drop of sweat rolling down my spine.
There are a hundred things I should think about, but only one takes precedent—Sasha. My mind muddles through every interaction, each whispered word, the tiny singular moments that make up a relationship with one person. I wonder if I should have known it was him. Did I miss a cue? Does Gabi know? No, she can’t.
Slowly, the hurt, loss, and betrayal turn to despair, and pure, unbridled rage. I came here for one reason. I married Enrique for revenge. And I will have it.
Pushing to my feet, I go back inside. A newfound resolve settles over me like an impenetrable bubble where weakness and emotions that do not serve me cannot reach. It’s strangely numbing and relieving.
In the bathroom, I stare at my reflection in the mirror. Yesterday’s make up is streaked down my face in ugly lines. It’s a scarily accurate depiction of how I feel. I wash all evidence of the previous day from my skin, restoring my face to its natural state, though in truth, it’s not much better. My eyes look flat and lifeless, and shadows cling beneath them, seemingly a permanent fixture now. Picking up the hairbrush, I work it through the tangled mess left by hundreds of bobby pins.
I need Enrique on my side, and I already know he wants to fuck me. He might have had me, but it wasn’t willingly. If I know him as I think I do, his ego needs me to actually want him. So, I find a sexy yet subtle sundress and check my reflection once more. It should do.
As soon as I step out of my room, the aroma of toast and coffee greets me, drifting up from downstairs. I follow the scent to the kitchen. The low rumble of several voices comes from inside, and I linger just beyond the doorway. On a deep breath, my shoulders square before I step into the room. The second I do, a hush falls over the kitchen. Five men sit at a huge oak table in front of the window. Sunshine fills the room, painting the scene in a joyful hue. A pretty lie, like everything here. I recognize the men as some of Enrique’s guards, though I barely glance at them long enough to register their details. Enrique and scarface sit at the breakfast bar alone, apart from everyone else.
I meet Enrique’s near-black eyes before his gaze narrows. For a moment, that’s where we stay, and I can see him trying to work out why I’m here. After a few seconds, he snaps his fingers.
“All of you out,” he orders.
There are a few grumbles before they all get up from the huge table and leave. Where once they would have eyed me up and down with perverted smiles, they now keep their gazes trained on the floor. Perhaps they don’t want to get caught looking at their boss’s wife. Scarface is slower to move, watching me like I’m the dangerous one in the room. Maybe he knows I tried to kill Enrique. Good. Let them realize that I’m not the broken, little caged bird they think I am.
When the room is finally empty and silent, I step forward.
Enrique is his usual put-together self this morning: black suit, combed hair, and that air of arrogance that he wears like a second skin. There’s no hint of his drunken rape last night or my subsequent attempt to kill him. Even the cut I left on his skin is hidden beneath the crisp white collar of his shirt.
“I didn’t expect to see you this morning,” he muses, eyes sweeping over my body as I approach.
“What did you expect? For me to hide away?”
“Naturally.” His lips twist into a mocking smirk that irritates me beyond words.
He thinks me weak. Maybe I am. I’m not sure where the act stopped and my true self started to creep in. I wasn’t raised in the fold of the mafia like my sister. I’m simply the daughter of a man who did bad things. I was naive to think I could take on Enrique, but grief and the need for revenge will drive a person to do things they never thought they would.
I pass behind him, where he sits at the breakfast bar. There was a time when I would have been scared to turn my back on Enrique, but that fear is curiously absent now. As I make a mug of coffee, I realize his presence doesn’t bother me like it once did. Today of all days—after what he did to me last night—it really should. I also know that my future will be defined by how I react now. I can be a victim or a phoenix, rising from the ashes. I need his respect, and self-pity won’t earn it for me.
