Marked Steel: A Stand Alone Dark Romance (Steel Crew Book 8)

by Mj Fields

  “And what’s that?”

  I stop, and he turns toward me. Pushing up on my toes, I press my lips to his. “We’re magic together.”

  Smiling against mine, he responds, “Half-mast, and the two minutes I may or may not last will certainly not be what disproves that theory.”

  Groaning in frustration, I begin walking again, dragging him behind me and listening to him laugh.

  Once at the front door, he unlocks it, opens it, and says, “After you.”

  I walk in and look around. “Someone cleaned up.”

  “Si.”

  I inhale. “And, do I smell food?”

  “A light dinner. Pasta.”

  “Please don’t tell me it’s green.”

  He steps behind me, wraps his arms around me, and kisses my neck. “It certainly is.”

  Moving toward the doorway to the back room, the room that I once walked out of because I needed to breathe, I pause.

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Of course.”

  He reaches around me and pushes open the door.

  When I see what he’s done, I reach a new level of emotion—elation.

  “It’s me.”

  “It’s you.”

  I step in and look around. There are several canvases, each one a different scene.

  He points to the painting farthest left. “The first concert.”

  “It’s a timeline. Our timeline.”

  “The one in the middle is my favorite. It’s when I realized how beautifully complex and brilliant you are. And it’s when I thought I was damned. I thought that I would live every day missing your brilliance, your wit, your beauty, your heart.” He walks around me and takes my hands, eyes seeking mine with a sense of urgency.

  “The day I realized every picture I painted was of you, I knew I was forever changed. Even before, when there was no talk of love, just urgency and need to know you, to allow you to get closer to me than I ever experienced, I begged God to make it stop. I knew it would hurt you, but I also know you’re unbreakable. You are the beautiful girl living amongst your monsters, as you call them, and I am the man who is broken inside. Two negatives truly become something positive.”

  “God, I love you,” falls from my lips as easy as a breath.

  He steps back and leads me behind the row of paintings. “I need you to see what I have witnessed since your last concert.”

  In every picture, there is a woman bearing my resemblance. Behind her—me, this woman—are shapeless forms in various colors.

  “My monsters,” I whisper.

  “Your monsters. You are not theirs.”

  He lets go of my hands and grabs a paintbrush. “Come.” He positions me in front of him and hands me the brush, wrapping his hands around mine. “Now, we paint together.”

  I pull back my hand. “No way am I going to ruin your work.”

  “This is ours together.”

  “Matteo, I never even colored inside the lines.”

  “Don’t you see? You never were meant to.”

  I let his hand guide mine as the brush strokes the canvas, in gray around yellow. The first painting takes only seconds, and my anxiety is collared, a leash attached and my hand holding it.

  “For red?” he asks.

  “Black.”

  Red—rage—is colored and the leash in my hand.

  Every monster he’s put on canvas bears a striking resemblance to those in my mind, the colors exact.

  With anxiety and rage done, we move on to black—depression—and then gray—disillusion—and one I not yet imagined—a black and white stripped monster.

  “And this is?”

  “You have no diagnosis yet, and I don’t think you truly need it. You have all the tools to control it, and you have your family and me to assist when necessary. Black and white is bipolar.”

  After we paint that monster the same, I turn and hug him. I hug him harder than I have ever hugged anyone in my life.

  “You are seen, Tris, and you are loved.”

  Jersey

  The first night home, I wait until My and Bris to go to bed. My was easy to outlast. He goes to bed before the sun goes down so he can hit the gym before it rises. I don’t understand that, but it obviously works for him.

  Tonight, he told me that he was picked up by the Yankees club and would be taking off to join the minor league team in hopes of getting pulled up.

  Brisa is all about talking about Matteo and how amazing it is that we’re engaged. I know it hurts her that I didn’t return her call, but I also know Mom and Dad showed them the video.

  I hate hurting her, I do, but I also hate that I feel so out of place when I’m here.

  I asked Mom and Dad not to tell them how soon after graduation the wedding will be, wanting them to enjoy their time, their moment, since I have taken so much from them, away from them over the past few years.

  Brisa is hanging in there, though. I suppose she’s waiting for me to fall asleep, so I do what I used to do—I pretend. Only, this time, it’s not to unlock my bedroom window so Marc could sneak in and live out whatever fantasy we snapped back and forth to each other like before we moved here.

  As soon as she leaves, I sit up and grab my phone. Out of habit, I hit Snapchat and see several unread Snaps from Marc. The last one … today.

  I use my “tools” and tug the proverbial leash on yellow, who is fueling my worry, and gray, who wants me to believe that it’s an apology, and hit the messenger app. I shoot my parents a text, asking them to come to my room. Then I grab the book off my nightstand and my evening cocktail of pills to ward off the onset of the storm I feel coming.

  When they come in, they look worried.

  “I just wanted to show you something.”

  “Yeah?” Dad says, plopping down on the bed and grabbing the book and jokes. “Not read this?”

  “Stop picking on her,” Mom says, fussing over fixing the covers and sitting beside me.

  “I want to show you pictures of what Matteo did for me, in case you have any doubt whatsoever that he’s not exactly the person I’m supposed to be with.”

  “We love Matteo, Tris; we just wish—”

  “Yeah, me, too,” I cut Dad off. “But I’ll take whatever time we have.”

  I hold up the phone. “This is me, and those are my monsters.”

  “Your monsters?” they ask at the same time.

  I nod and pull my knees up to my chest. “I just recently started being able to identify which one was driving the crazy train. Like, in my head, I see yellow when an anxiety attack is coming on.” I look at them both. “You still with me?”

  They simply nod.

  “I know it’s a lot to understand, and no, I don’t think there are actual monsters living inside me. Well, not anymore, anyway.” I hand Mom the phone and flop back, not convinced this is a good idea. Staring at the ceiling, I continue, anyway. “Red is rage, like, black rose buffet-style flip out. Black is depression, like taking a handful of pills because I would rather die than feel the way I felt. Gray is disillusion, which happened more often than I care to admit, and yellow, the anxiety that can bring any of the prefaced out to play at any moment.”

  “And you recognize it before it happens?” Dad asks.

  “Starting to, yep. Living cleaner and stress-free helps that a lot. Which brings me back to the whole reason I messaged and asked you to come down. Matteo brought me to his studio and put a brush in my hand. He guided it to paint the collars and the leashes, showing that I have control of my monsters and not the other way around.”

  I sit up and look at them. “When I say I think I’m bipolar, it’s not some excuse I need or want; it’s an explanation as to why. So, please stop label-blocking Marley.”

  “Did she say that we were?” Dad huffs.

  “No, she gave a real flowery explanation as to why she didn’t like to diagnose kids my age with a mental health issue. But I assume the two of you are behind it.”

  “We ar
en’t against it, Tris. We want you to get help and feel the exact power you hold, the kind Matteo depicts in the paintings. But there are several different bipolar disorders, and there are several different causes. You have to let the process work, and so do we, so we will step back, too.”

  Not wanting to step back and wanting them to see I know myself better than they think I do, I tell them, “Bipolar is out, since I tried to off myself. Bipolar II is more likely.”

  Mom leans her head against mine. “Teenagers have manic and hyper- and hypo-manic mood swings, too, which is why no diagnosis. There is also bipolar due to substance abuse, Cyclothymic disorder, and a new theory that says PTSD can share some of the same attributes as bipolar disorder.”

  “PTSD?” I laugh. “Can we sue Suckshore for that?”

  Dad chuckles, “Or you could sue your parents for you finding that album, porn for how fucked up of a stigma it gives people, the internet for allowing access to that without showing ID or whatever, the state for allowing you to go through an abortion at fifteen without proper mental health support, or Marcello and the twins for being bullies.”

  “Wow, I’ve been through a lot, huh?” I laugh.

  “You have.” Mom hugs me. “And we’re sorry.”

  “Then be sorry for the entire population,” I joke.

  “Trust me, Tris; we are. This world is fucked.”

  “Says the man who used to tie Mom up?” I smirk.

  “At a legal age, an age where—”

  “Your brain is fully developed. Yeah, I know.”

  After a few minutes of silence, I lay down, and so do they.

  Dad holds up the book. “We should get Matteo a copy of this as a wedding gift.”

  “I do not want my future husband knowing I still like my parents to read me this book.”

  “Surely, he knows, and I’m guessing he’d love to read it to you. Hell, he drew you your own.”

  “No, Mom”—I smile and close my eyes—“he doesn’t. How crazy is that?”

  And Dad begins, “The night Max wore his wolf suit and made mischief of one kind”—he flips the page—“and another”—he flips the page—“his mother called him ‘WILD THING!’ and Max said, ‘I’LL EAT YOU UP!’ so he was sent to bed without eating anything.”

  No More Time Apart

  Matteo

  Change is exhausting, but I have a renewed hope that everything will be for the better. My lab results and scans confirm that I am no worse than I was a little over a year ago. Dr. Adler was so surprised that she ordered a second scan, which concluded the same.

  Ten days into my change in meds, being hooked up to an IV, to keep me hydrated, and I am feeling exceptionally well, and another scan has confirmed that, at present time, there has been no change in the days since the change.

  The reality is that there has been a change, and although it feels wrong on many levels, I am showering as much as I did when puberty took hold, possibly even more.

  I am now off the IV and at the castle rented for our wedding guests.

  The fact that three days after Brisa and Amias’s graduation, Bekah, Brisa, and Tris had everything planned, mind blowing. Most women take years to prepare for their big day.

  I expressed my concern to Tris, hoping that she wasn’t settling, because I wanted her to have the wedding of her dreams, and she started crying.

  It was then I saw it—the sadness and the clouding in her eyes. It battered my already broken heart. Then I told her the good news from the doctor, hoping to brighten her day, and the other good news—that the medication changes helped.

  She cried because she didn’t want me to change for her. I assured her that the medication was perfectly safe, that the only reason I had not switched was because I wasn’t going back to mindless sex and, until her, that’s what I would have been having. I also admitted that I was concerned for my afterlife and wanted to live as a morally sound man before the inevitable happened.

  To that … she cried.

  Now I am sitting in a castle, bustling with people, readying for the arrival of Tris and her family, as well as her extended family, and waiting for the internet to connect the therapy appointment with Marley for Tris and I, something I suggested.

  As soon as she is visible on the screen, the lighting much better than the darkened bedroom she Face-timed with me for the past twelve days, hiding her pain, as was I for the first of those days while the medication change was affecting me.

  Her first words: “I sent an email invite to some people and fucking Google invited the Effisto’s.” She takes in a deep breath and continues, “They RSVP’d that they would be there. I’m sorry. If you don’t want to marry me because I’m a fuck-up than—”

  “Tris, I’m not concerned with the guests at our wedding.”

  “I mean, it’s just Mel and Sabato, maybe Torrance, but Marc isn’t coming, so …”

  I realize I hadn’t mentioned my little exchange with the father, and I have no plans in doing so.

  “Dad’s pissed at me.”

  “I would bet he’s not pissed, so much as worried.”

  “Well, then he should have let me leave when I told him I wanted to.”

  Marley steps in, “I’d like both of you to take a moment to look at each other quietly and breathe.”

  “Looking at him hurts. I’m a fuck-up, and he deserves to be happy. I’ll ruin it. I ruin—”

  “Tris, tell me what happened.”

  “I was born.” She crosses her arms and gives me a stern look. “You should really reconsider making the biggest mistake of your life. I’m a bad person. I invite—”

  “The woman who makes my soul sing isn’t a bad person; she’s the love of my life. And in an effort to be fair, if you’re a bad person, so am I. I invited my brothers. They’ll be here tomorrow.”

  “God, what are we doing?” She sniffs.

  I smile at the reality of what it is. “Failing at being apart.”

  “We are positioning ourselves for the worst sort of pain possible, Matteo.”

  I feel as if the wind has been knocked out of me, and it hurts. In fact, it’s hell.

  “Okay, time for me to intervene. This, right here, is perfectly normal for all couples. The sense of urgency, the bond you have formed, and the fact that I, a woman of science, believes in your love and will be your biggest cheerleader. Hell, I’ll even grab some pom-poms for our next session. That’s how much I believe in you both. It’s typical pre-wedding jitters.”

  “Can I ask exactly where you attended University?” I ask shortly and wish I hadn’t.

  “Berkley.” She rolls her eyes. A professional woman rolls her eyes.

  I lean in and look at her. “Tris, one kiss gave us answers to questions we never knew we deserved answers too.

  She wipes her sleeve under her nose. “And what’s that?”

  “A million times we both wondered that same thing: why me?”

  She hugs her knees and buries her face in them.

  “When you get back here, you’ll never have to ask it again.”

  ~~~

  I spent two days with my nieces, the absolute best days with them to date. I will admit that it is partially due to the fact they think I’m “awesome” because I am marrying their idol, and I will further admit that I will use that to its full advantage. I want them happy. Happier than anyone who was ever cursed by that home ever was.

  Sending them back to the house that I rented for my side of the family with Samuel, their niñero, was difficult, but I needed to rest as Tris and the Steel family were traveling across the Atlantic now and would be getting in after midnight Italian time, so a nap is necessary so that I can remind her who she is and fix whatever it is that happened when she was home.

  In two days, she will be Tris Arias, and I will be hers for the rest of my time.

  ~~~

  I wake to an alarm that I set and hear the echoes of whispers in the halls.

  I get up and hurry to the bathroom in the suite and cl
ean up quickly.

  Making my way down the stairs, I scan the room full of people, all her family members, yet I can’t seem to find her. But I do see two sets of eyes narrowed at me. It’s obvious they are her uncles, Cyrus and Jase. Even if I hadn’t looked into them on her cousin’s social media pages, it’s more than obvious.

  I decide to introduce myself and welcome Cyrus and Jase. I hold out my hand in greeting. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Matteo Arias.”

  The bulkier of the two, Cyrus, rolls his eyes. “Talk to me when she’s eighteen.”

  From out of nowhere, someone smacks him in the back of the head. “Enough. Say hello and be polite.”

  Jase starts laughing, and Cyrus swings around. “Momma Joe, what in the hell are you thinking?”

  “That I raised you better.”

  “I’m a grown-ass man.”

  “I’m your mother, a job that is never done. I’m righting whatever wrong I made while you were growing up that makes you think being rude to family is ever okay.”

  He throws his thumb over his shoulder. “This dude’s not family. Tris won’t even get out of the damn car. Clearly, there’s a problem.”

  “Perdóname.” I walk past him, kiss Momma Joe on one cheek then the next, and hurry toward the entry door. Once outside on the wide stone steps, I see a shadow of a man leaning against the car, arms crossed, clearly annoyed. I assume it’s one of the men who Tris told me that Ranger had employed for the event and pay him no mind.

  Inside the car, the light is on, and I see Bekah and Zandor leaning in, talking to someone between them. I know that someone is Tris.

  “Might want to give her a minute, or just go to bed and deal with it tomorrow.” Amias pushes off the side of the building and steps out into the light.

  “Perdóname.”

  I make my way down the stairs and open the car door. “Tris.”

  “I just need a minute,” she says, hugging her knees.

  “May I?” I ask Zandor.

  He slides out of the car, walks around, and opens the door for Bekah. “Let’s head in.”

  Bekah kisses Tris and hugs her before sliding out.