Saving Her: A Dark Mafia Duet

by Eden Summers

  Just like in Greece, when I hadn’t been able to see the injury on the side of my head to stitch the wound, I now can’t remove the cotton firmly embedded in my skin. And I’ve left it too long for the removal, not wanting to ask Sarah for help and also not feeling comfortable pushing Penny. But she’s given me an inch. Maybe it’s time to strive for a mile.

  I place the chair down in front of the basin and meet her gaze through the room-length mirror. “Are you still happy to do this?”

  “Of course.” She nods. “Sit.”

  I take my place on the chair, sitting tall. I’m determined not to let her nearness get to me. Not under my skin or in my head. It feels like a lifetime since I opened my mouth in Greece and let the stupidity of flirtation burst out. But my attraction hasn’t wavered. If anything, it’s intensified.

  Seeing her all helpless and meek taunts me into protecting her. And that baggy sweater and the loose sweatpants do nothing to temper my memory of her perfect thighs, slim waist, and perky tits.

  She’s a siren.

  An intense trigger to my temptation.

  She walks around me, moving to the injured side of my head, her eyes gentle as she takes in the healing wound. “It looks like you’ve been taking good care of it.”

  “Haven’t taken much care at all. I attribute any awesomeness to the nurse who stitched me up. She did a remarkable job.”

  A smile teases her lips. “I appreciate the praise. I’m also thankful you don’t have the ability to see the error of your words. The stitching resembles a hack job at best.”

  “I’m not a pretty boy. I don’t care what it looks like as long as the risk of infection is gone.”

  She reaches out, her fingers lightly brushing through the shortened lengths of hair around the wound, inspiring goose bumps to blanket my arms. “Your skin has started to heal over the thread. It might feel uncomfortable when I pull it out.”

  I can smell her.

  Actually, I can smell me on her, which is fucking worse. She must be using my shampoo. Even though I’ve placed five years’ worth of flower-scented products in her bathroom.

  “Do your worst.” I swallow over the unwanted build of lust. “As long as you don’t leave anything behind, I’m good.”

  She nods and grabs the blade and tweezers, dousing them in antiseptic, then returns to her position at my side. “Tell me if I’m hurting you.”

  She is.

  The agonizing discomfort of her proximity is fucking killing me. The curiosity surrounding her use of my shampoo is a thorn in my side, too. Why does she want to smell like me?

  She leans in, those fingers resting against my scalp as her breathing brushes my skin.

  She’s everywhere—in my lungs, in my head, forever in every room of this fucking house. And of course, my dick doesn’t want to miss out on the admiration. It twinges to life as I clench my jaw, hard, determined to keep my libido in check.

  Her first nick of the blade is tentative. So goddamn gentle and feather-light.

  “Don’t hold back, shorty. You’re going to have to be more firm than that if you don’t want to spend all day staring at my skull.”

  Her mouth kicks into a smile, but she doesn’t change her tender style as she uses tweezers to gently pick at the cotton.

  It’s nice to see her smiling. Really smiling. Not the fake-ass, untruthful curve of lips she likes to placate me with.

  I can’t pull my attention from her as she works in silence, using the blade before tugging out a tiny strand of thread to place on the counter.

  Bit by bit she removes the cotton, her breath a constant caress against my temple, her fingers an ongoing tease.

  “Why don’t we start making that list?” I wait until she leans back to look at me before I grab the notepad and pen from the counter. “What small steps could you take to help kickstart your recovery?”

  She winces. Shrugs. “I don’t know. Hasn’t stepping out of my comfort zone to open up to you been a big enough achievement for today?”

  “Definitely. But this is for tomorrow, and the day after. Just one at a time, Pen. That’s all I’m askin’.”

  Her sigh is slight, barely audible as she leans in and tugs another piece of thread from my skull. “I don’t know. I guess having the guts to call my sisters could be on the list. Or messaging my brother to tell him how I’m doing so Sarah doesn’t have to keep spying.”

  I write both down in bullet points. “Anything else?”

  She shakes her head. “I honestly don’t feel capable of achieving anything else. Not even those things I just told you. Having a list is only going to add more pressure and increase the sense of failure.”

  She’s not a failure. Not even close.

  “What if I write some ideas down?” I ask.

  “Write all you like, but you need to be aware your understanding of who I am and what I’m capable of is completely warped. This is going to be too hard.”

  No, it’s not. And my perception isn’t warped. If anything, I’m the only one who knows the real Penny and what she’s truly able to achieve. I’ve seen her at her worst. This person beside me is merely a shadow of the remarkable woman waiting to break free. “Trust me.”

  There’s another sigh. Another brush of painfully gentle fingers. “I do,” she whispers. “It’s the fear of disappointing you that makes this harder.”

  I don’t know what part of her admission surprises me most—the trust I never thought I’d receive or the sweet way she wants to impress me. Both have an unwanted effect on my dick.

  “You’re not going to disappoint me.” I scribble on the notepad, adding more tasks to the list. “We only need to focus on one goal a day. If you achieve it, that’s great. If you don’t, we can try something else.”

  She refocuses on her task, raising the blade to my wound, not acknowledging my words. She tugs at the stitches, placing more and more cotton on the counter.

  I get that she hates being here—hates me pushing—but maybe Sarah is right. I can’t watch her wallow. If this tactic doesn’t work I’ll try something else. And if that doesn’t help, I’ll find another way. I’m not giving up on her.

  I keep writing as she tends to my head, the two of us working in comfortable silence until she gives a final tug to the embedded cotton, then leans real fucking close to inspect her handiwork. “You’re doing a lot of writing.”

  “I’ve got a lot of ideas.”

  She sidesteps, the blade and tweezers dumped in the sink before she rests against the counter to stare at me. “Well, don’t keep me waiting. What are these great ideas of yours?”

  “You sure you’re ready?” I ask. “This is going to change your life.”

  She crosses her arms over her chest, plumping her breasts beneath the heavy sweater. “You’re well aware I’m not ready at all. So hurry up and get this over with.”

  I chuckle, appreciating her underlying spite a little too much. “Okay. Number one.”

  She straightens, as if preparing for torture.

  “Watch a movie with me.”

  I didn’t think it possible, but she stiffens further, her brows furrowing. “Watch a movie?”

  “Yep. As simple as that. Sit your ass on the sofa and chill out to mindless television. It’s better than the isolation of your room or the deck.”

  Those brows rise for long seconds before she says, “Okay. I can give it a try.”

  “Number two—teach me how you do laundry.”

  Her smile creeps back into the conversation, her brows knitting. “Laundry? Really?”

  “Really. I’ve been a grown man who takes pride in washing his own shit for over ten years now, but my clothes have never smelled as good or felt as soft as they have since you’ve worked your magic.”

  She rolls her eyes. “It’s called fabric softener, Luca.”

  “I don’t have fabric softener.”

  “Yeah, you do. I found it in the back of one of your laundry cupboards. It’s probably old enough to burn holes thro
ugh your shirts, but obviously it’s doing the trick.”

  “Obviously.” I mimic her eye roll. “Number three—exercise.”

  She sucks in a subtle breath and I pause, waiting for the stereotypical female retaliation.

  It’s clear she doesn’t need to lose weight. Her body is on point. What she requires is the shift in brain function.

  “Right.” Instead of a protest, she nods and breaks eye contact to focus on the tiled floor.

  “Don’t get huffy on me,” I warn. “I’d never comment on your body in a negative way. Not only because it’s fucking rude, but because you’re stunning. With or without the small village supply of material covering you at any given time.”

  I wait for a smile that doesn’t appear and mentally berate myself for not prefacing my suggestion. “Exercise lowers cortisol, which is a stress hormone, while helping to increase endorphins. In your case, working out is about mood and mental health—not anything to do with appearance.”

  “I get it.” She nods. “You don’t have to explain.”

  “Yeah, I do. I can already see you creeping back into that shell of yours and it’s pissing me off.”

  Making her feel like shit has a reciprocal effect. The only bonus is my resulting limp dick.

  “Sorry,” she mutters. Murmurs.

  Fuck.

  I hold in the need to growl in frustration. “Number four—read a self-help book. Number five—meditate. Number six—go for a walk. Number seven—get plastered.”

  She doesn’t respond, just keeps her attention on the floor.

  “Penny?” We’ve come so far this morning. From no words to heavy conversation and even physical contact. I’d thought I was receiving the jackpot of recovery. Turns out it was only a slight detour. “You still don’t like the idea of a list, do you?”

  “No, it’s not that.” She pushes from the counter. “Your ideas are great. I actually like them.”

  “But?”

  “No buts.” She gives me a placating smile. “You make it sound too easy, that’s all.”

  “I’ve got no misconceptions about how hard this is going to be. Despite whatever warped perceptions you think I have, I know you’re trudging through hell at the moment.” I push to stand, the notepad hanging idle in my grip. “This list is only an attempt to get you to live a little.”

  “I’m living, Luca.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. And the sooner you realize, the easier this will be. You deserve more than this limbo. And I’m here to help. I’m not going anywhere. You’re not going anywhere. We’re stuck together for now. So share the load, because it’s sure as shit harder for me to watch you struggle from the sidelines than it will be at your side.”

  Her eyes turn somber, the wrinkle stretching across her forehead burrowing deep.

  “I’m only asking you to try. I have no other expectations.” I hold out the notepad for her to take. “But, come on, Pen. Aren’t you at least a little excited to try and get out of your funk?”

  “It’s not a fun—”

  “You know what I mean.” I don’t want to give her struggle a toxic label, whether it’s depression or PTSD. All that shit has negative connotations. “Aren’t you the slightest bit interested in doing something different?”

  She grabs the notepad and raises her other hand, cinching her thumb and pointer finger so they’re a breath apart. “A little.”

  Good.

  Fucking fantastic.

  A little is all I need. For now. “What do you say if we keep the momentum going and cross an afternoon session of movie watching off the list?”

  Her smile is subtle, the slightest curve of tempting lips as she lets out an exaggerated sigh. “What did you have in mind?”

  5

  Luca

  We ticked the movie off the list without a hitch.

  I don’t care if she fell asleep before the dramatic climax to have a two-hour power nap. If anything, I count it as a victory that she felt comfortable enough to sleep in the same room. Her rest was peaceful, too.

  No nightmares.

  No murmured cries for help.

  The next day we moved on to the laundry. And props to her for giving it her all as she talked down to me, slow and demeaning, with her instructions on how to unscrew the lid to the fabric softener and pour the contents into the allocated tube of the washing machine.

  Day by day, hour by hour, she starts to open up. Gradually. The lessening of her fear is incremental. But it’s there. That’s all that matters.

  “So, what do you have in store for me today, GI Joe?” She enters the doorway to my weights room, hands on hips, the baggy sleeves of her sweater scrunched at her elbows.

  She’s lighter today. Brighter. Her eyes have a healthy glow.

  And even though her nightmares haven’t disappeared, at least our new routine of a daily movie session has ensured she’s getting a nap during the daylight hours. The time she now spends reading might be doing the trick to distract some of her negative thoughts, too.

  “I want you to go for a basic run.” I keep pushing out my muscle-up reps, dragging myself over the bar again and again.

  “Basic run?” She steps into the room, moving toward the treadmill with trepidation. “Define basic.”

  “I want you to run a mile.” I drop to the floor and shake out the burn in my arms. “Without stopping.”

  “That doesn’t seem so bad. A mile isn’t far.”

  “It is if you’re not used to running. Hell, even a couple hundred yards can be difficult on the body if you haven’t exercised in a while.”

  She climbs onto the machine and attaches the safety clip to her sweater as I approach the side of the conveyor.

  She presses buttons, placing the starting pace high. Far too high for a beginner.

  “You might want to dial it back a notch. You can work up to a fast pace over time. Today is about getting through the mile however possible. I don’t care if you have to granny shuffle over the finish line.”

  “Granny shuffle? Where’s all that faith you’re supposed to have in me?”

  “I’ve got faith. I just don’t want you falling on that pretty face right out of the gate.”

  She huffs. “Fine. I’ll start with a light jog.” She presses buttons again, turning on the machine, the conveyor slowly sliding into gear. “Do you have any music?”

  “Yeah.” I return to the chin-up bar and grab my cell from the floor. “What’s your preference?”

  “I don’t mind.” She undoes her ponytail, her stride flawless as she refastens it higher and tighter. “Whatever you usually listen to will be fine.”

  I start my workout playlist, the intense beat of Slipknot’s “Duality” filling the room.

  I try to concentrate on my reps as she runs. I clasp the chin-up bar. Do another set of muscle-ups. But my attention keeps drifting to her. Her stride. Her ease.

  She increases the pace, pushing harder, moving faster. I don’t hear her panted breath over the music. Instead, I feel it. The heavy lift of her chest. The distinct purse of her mouth. Each step acts like a cattle prod to my libido.

  “You’re fit.” I pull myself over the bar and pause, waiting for her response. “Why didn’t you mention it when we were discussing the list?”

  She presses the treadmill dashboard again, creeping the pace higher. “I didn’t think you’d want to know the intricate details of how Luther liked his women in peak condition.”

  She’s right. That information isn’t welcomed. In fact, my anger spikes, the reminder of her captor spurring me to push out an additional two reps of pure frustration before falling to the floor.

  I slump onto the bench press, watching her, amazed by her.

  Tightness enters my chest and it has nothing to do with exercise and a whole hell of a lot to do with things I shouldn’t be thinking about.

  She decreases the pace for long enough to remove her sweater and throw it to the floor. Then she’s back running again, her oversized T-shirt
billowing at her hips. It’s not enough to stop the display of her bouncing tits. Or to hide the hardness of her nipples pressing against the thin material.

  It’s times like this where I wish it had escaped my attention that she didn’t have any underwear in yesterday’s load of laundry. She has no visible panty line either. And maybe I’m daydreaming or living in a fucked-up fantasy, but I don’t think she’s been wearing underwear at all. Not now, and not since returning stateside.

  Fuck me for being the prick who noticed.

  I shove to my feet, needing an additional set of reps to drag my attention away from something that will get me killed. Something that’s a fucking dick move to even think about.

  She deserves better.

  Decker trusted me with her protection. He didn’t give me an all-access pass to ogle his sister.

  I drag myself up and over the bar, punishing myself, pushing so fucking hard my arms scream in protest. And still I can’t stop the imagery taking over my mind. Can’t drag my fucking gaze away.

  She’s completely oblivious. She keeps running, surpassing the mile marker to plow straight ahead.

  There’s never been a more remarkable woman. More powerful. More inspirational.

  I’m caught up admiring the perfection until I finally gain the restraint to drag my attention away. I stare out the window in front of her, wishing I had the power to give her a better life. To solve her problems.

  I’m stuck in the daydream of making her smile… until my gaze catches on her reflection in the glass, those dark eyes staring back at me.

  Shit.

  I force myself not to look away and announce the wicked shit filling my head. And I try even harder not to readjust my cock. To put the fucker back in his place—into deep, dark confinement far away from her, all while she keeps staring, keeps undoing me.

  “That’s enough for today.” I release the bar and drop to my feet. “You don’t want to push yourself too hard when I’m going to make you come back tomorrow.”

  Fucking tomorrow—the necessary vicious routine that will help her, and slowly kill me.