by Sam Mariano
“Are you asking if I’m still sleeping with Mia?” he asks, for clarification.
“No.” My heart threatens to fly right out of my chest, my courage desperately attempting escape. “I’m asking if you’re hurting her.”
“I’ve hurt Mia plenty,” he says, carefully. “Far more than she’s ever deserved. I’m still hurting her. But not in the way you mean.”
That should make me feel better, but it doesn’t. He said the same thing last time. He wasn’t good to Mia, but he never did that. Elise says differently. My doubts say he’s probably lying. Mia’s feelings for him in the past back him up—or, I thought they did, but maybe they don’t. She did make a joke about having Stockholm syndrome once. Maybe she managed to love him despite what he did to her. Maybe it wasn’t the evidence of his innocence that I took it to be.
Maybe I misread the situation and started a life with someone based on misinformation. Maybe I was wrong. Wouldn’t be the first time. Probably won’t be the last, either.
Adrian was right about that.
“Am I still allowed to leave?”
It feels like the room suddenly freezes when those words slip out of my mouth. I had no intention to ask—I mean, I’ve wanted to, but I didn’t actually intend to.
Now they’re out there, and anxiety gathers in my chest. He’s still holding me, his grip still tight, but now it feels like a shackle. Now I can hardly breathe.
Finally he manages, “What?”
“Just hypothetically,” I add, trying not to sound as nervous as I feel.
“That’s not a question you ask hypothetically unless you’re thinking about it,” he states logically. “Are you?”
“I just…” I don’t know how to answer that. I’m not prepared. “You told me once I could leave if I wanted to. That the offer was open. That you could never hurt me. And I believed you. But I listened to you tell Mia just the other night she couldn’t leave. She never even accepted your death necklace or an engagement ring, and you told her you’d make her stay.”
“Mia made her own promises,” he tells me.
“Well, so did I. I took your ring. I’m carrying your child. But you still told me I could leave if I wanted to. When Mia tried, you killed her transport.”
“She didn’t really want to leave,” Mateo states, sounding vaguely irritated. “Vince wasn’t letting go. I don’t know what he said, she won’t tell me and I didn’t have—they were in the wrong room. But I’m confident he threatened her. Maybe threatened me. Mia wouldn’t have changed her mind on me like that without strong incentive.”
“Well, what if I did?”
His grip lets up and he spins me over to look at him, frowning at me. “I don’t want you to leave, Meg.”
He still isn’t answering me. “But if I wanted to, would you let me?”
I watch him work through this, piecing together a response for me. “If you wanted to leave me, I would try to convince you not to. But I would really hope you wouldn’t do that while I’m dealing with Mia in the same mindset, because trying to convince two women not to flee at the same time… well, that would be a lot to manage, even for me.”
“This isn’t what I wanted. I thought we’d all be happy,” I tell him, looking into his eyes. “I didn’t think you’d do this to her.”
“We would’ve been,” he says, a bit regretfully. “If Vince would’ve let go. We still will, she just needs time. I’ll get her back where we want her to be, she just needs time to mourn him.”
“What if you’re wrong?” I ask.
“I’ve bet literally everything that I’m not.”
I search his handsome face, wishing I could get inside his brain. “What if you made a bad bet?”
Something that’s not quite a smile plays around his lips, tinged with sadness. “Well, then maybe I lose it all.”
I shake my head, subtly moving out of his embrace. “Why make a bet with odds like that, Mateo? You had so much already.”
I hate the realization that maybe I got rid of one gambler and replaced him with another. Mateo doesn’t just bet with money and play with cards; he bets with hearts and plays with lives.
“Because I had to. I have to know,” he answers.
“Know what?”
He sighs heavily, as if burdened by his own bullshit. “If I can rebuild the good things I will inevitably break.”
Chapter Seventeen
Mia
I don’t know what day it is.
Counting down how many nights Mateo has spent with me, I think it’s been a week.
A whole week without Vince. A whole week locked away in Mateo’s house, enduring instead of enjoying him. This wasn’t what I thought this week would be like. I don’t even know why he keeps coming back. Mateo isn’t like Vince; he’s not someone I expect to keep coming back for more rejection. I expected him to give up on me and return to Meg’s bed half a week ago. Or at least make me give him something.
But he hasn’t. He still holds me every night—I guess he makes me give him that. But that’s not much, especially for him. He doesn’t even make me talk to him. He tries to make conversation with me, like he used to when he first took Vince from me, when I was locked in his bedroom instead of my own, when he came to bed to fuck me, to hurt me, twice a day and left me alone otherwise. But when I don’t talk back, he doesn’t push. I don’t know if he’s being gentle with me because of what I said to him that first night about me dying, or if he has his own reasons. I try not to think about why, because I want to keep him in his evil box this time. And he makes it a little bit harder every night he comes to my room and takes nothing from me. Every night he goes to bed essentially alone, when he could go to bed with someone who actually wants him. Every night he does that for me.
When darkness falls and he’s finished terrorizing whomever he terrorized today, he comes to my room again. He undresses and climbs into bed, reaching for me, pulling me close. It makes me ache. It feels horrifyingly like I’m getting used to this, learning to look forward to it, and I can’t do that. I can’t let him back in. I have to keep him out this time. If I give him even a piece of my heart back, he’ll shatter it.
Plus, he just doesn’t deserve it. Not after what he’s done.
“Tomorrow’s Sunday,” he tells me, after a minute.
“So?”
“It’s time to come back to family dinner,” he states.
“It’s not family dinner without Vince,” I tell him.
“It is now.”
I try to shrug out of his hold, but his grip only tightens.
“Don’t do that,” he says, holding onto me, bending to drop a kiss on the ball of my shoulder. “Don’t pull away from me.”
“I don’t want you touching me,” I tell him, still twisting my body, trying to get him to let go. “You’re a monster.”
“So you’ve said,” he replies, his tone cavalier, his grip unwavering. “Are you trying to remind me, or yourself?”
“You didn’t even give him a funeral,” I say, even as acknowledging the need for one rips open the hole in my heart.
“I didn’t give Joey one either,” he points out. “Under these circumstances, there are no funerals.”
“Your father got a funeral—a man everyone hated. A man no one had a nice word to say about—he got a funeral. And Vince didn’t.”
“That was strictly a formality,” he tells me. “Would a funeral have really helped? Would it have brought you closure? You would’ve worn a black dress and cried amongst mostly strangers. Vince’s dad would’ve flown back, and you would’ve had to stand beside him. Vince would’ve hated that.”
“Don’t act like you care what Vince would’ve wanted,” I say, jerking again, butting back against him with my shoulder.
“Then don’t act like it would’ve fixed anything,” he flings back.
“I told you,” I say back, with more fire. “I told you some things can’t be fixed. I warned you in time for you to change your mind. I told you I’d ne
ver forgive you and you didn’t care.”
“I know,” he says, too easily. I don’t trust it. He peels the strap of my camisole down off my shoulder now, sending alarm coursing through me. Then he starts dropping kisses there again, and my heart kicks into high gear as he lets go his hold on me, freeing up his arms so he can brace his weight above me instead. He keeps kissing my body, along my collar bone, down my chest.
“Stop,” I tell him.
He does, but now he’s on top of me, looking down at me. Something’s shifted. I don’t know what or why and I have no idea how, but he’s just reclaimed his power. Just like that. Just by deciding to. I get the uncomfortable feeling he’s had it all along, and I only thought I did.
“Here’s the thing, Mia,” he begins, holding my gaze.
I can’t look away from him. I actually want to, but I physically can’t.
“If you’re going to love me, you have to love me. All of me. The good, the bad, the indefensible—you have to accept it all. And you always have. More so than even Meg. I know this is hard on you, and I’m sorry it had to happen.” He lowers his face to mine now, dropping a light kiss on my lips. “But you’re mine, and he was in the way. He threatened you. He posed too great a risk. I’m sorry it hurts. I’ve let you have space to mourn, but don’t misunderstand my affection for you.” He gives me another kiss, tender, to make up for his next words. “I care for you as deeply as I care for anyone, Mia, but I am not Vince; you can’t rule me.”
I swallow, feeling a little chastised. “I’ve never tried to rule you.”
“I know,” he acknowledges, nodding. “And that’s why this works. Don’t start now.”
I swallow again. Twice. Three times. There’s still a lump in my throat. He’s still hovering over me, and I don’t know what happens now. I’ve lost control. I don’t think I ever had any. I was his harmless little puppy, running around the yard, not realizing he had a leash on me and was just letting me tire myself out.
Goddamn him.
“So, my feelings don’t mean anything to you?” I ask, feeling a little wobbly. “I’m just an object? You don’t have to fit in any boxes, but if I leave mine, what then?”
“Of course your feelings mean something to me, Mia.” I close my eyes as he hooks his fingers in the waistband of my sleep shorts and tugs them down. “I think I’ve proven that.”
“Which time?” I ask, a little shakily. “When you used my own words, spoken in private, to humiliate me? To hurt Vince? When you killed him, because I told you I wanted to stay with him? When you raped me, to see if you could make me hate you? Which time were you proving how much my feelings meant to you, Mateo?”
His eyes narrow, telling me without words he doesn’t much appreciate my rundown of his behavior.
I don’t much appreciate it, either.
“I’m gonna let that slide,” he tells me, like he’s doing me a favor.
“The truth?” I question, almost smiling. “You usually do.”
Dread slides through me as he yanks my panties down next, tossing them and my sleep shorts off the side of my bed.
“I don’t want to fuck you,” I tell him.
“That’s okay,” he says easily, as his hand snakes under my camisole, catching my breast in his palm, caressing me. I hate the way my body instantly responds to him. I hate the way my nipple hardens, triggering a wicked smile stretching across his frustratingly handsome face.
I close my eyes, blocking him out. I won’t let him reach me. He can use my body, I can’t stop that, but he doesn’t deserve to reach me.
His hand slides down now, out from under my shirt, to slip between my legs. I try to squeeze my legs shut but he already has his fingers there, pushing inside me.
“I still don’t want to fuck you,” I grind out, eyes still closed.
“Mm, your body says otherwise,” he tells me, before surprising me with a kiss. Not a nice kiss, not a tender kiss; he assaults my mouth, his tongue overpowering mine, reminding me who’s boss, in case I forgot.
As if I ever could.
His kiss stirs my desire, and it infuriates me. I shove at his chest, but it’s useless. When Mateo doesn’t want to be moved, there’s not much you can do to move him. I shove him anyway, turning my face to break his kiss. I open my eyes, so he can see the storm brewing there.
“I loved you,” I tell him, lowly. “I loved you and you didn’t care.”
A flicker of something crosses his face, but it’s gone too fast for me to know what it was. “Of course I cared. I still care.”
“You told me you didn’t with your actions. I begged you not to do it. I begged you.”
“And you know how I like you begging,” he tells me.
This pisses me off, and he’s just right there—so I dig my fingernails into his thighs and drag them across his skin as hard as I can.
Hissing, he throws his head back. “Fuck, Mia.”
I glare at him, and he glares right back, but his glare’s a lot more intimidating. I feel like I’ve swallowed my heart, then he grabs me by the hair, forcing me up off the bed and pushing my head down once I get to my knees. I think he’s going to make me suck his cock, but instead he shoves my face toward his thighs, holding me there with his hard grip on my head.
“Now you kiss it and make it better,” he demands, a touch mockingly.
I’m a ball of resentment as I leave loveless pecks along the trail of scratches. I almost drew blood in one spot, and seeing that makes me feel bizarrely guilty. My kisses suddenly soften, no longer hard pecks, but actual kisses. And then it gets really hard, because the sensation of my lips brushing his skin unleashes a dormant strain of tenderness for him, the memories of how much I adore this man rushing over me. In this moment, as I kiss his thighs like I’m really sorry for hurting him… well, I am. The warring feelings overwhelm me—my heart telling me he’s precious to me, that he’s my world; my brain telling me he’s a monster, a demon, a threat to my very well-being. My heart is so stupid, so unbelievably stupid. No matter what this asshole does to me, it has this indestructible well of softness for him.
I don’t expect to—I certainly don’t think he expects it—but now that I’m here, and I’m confused, and for a blessed moment I can’t remember the misery that’s been with me all week, I gingerly take the tip of his cock into my mouth. I grasp him at the base with my hand and run my lips down over him, taking him as far as I can.
“Oh, Mia,” he groans, rubbing my back, encouraging me.
His approval triggers everything else. As I move my mouth up and down his cock, moaning, I only want to please him. It’s like a chain reaction in my body, independent of my heart, my mind. He hits the right buttons and I fall at his feet, no matter what.
It’s a relief, though. As I work his cock like someone who loves him, I’m momentarily free of the pain. It’s a mental break for me, escaping into this uncomplicated pocket of lust.
But it doesn’t last. My mind eventually recalls, as I look up at him, how callously he behaved toward me that night. How he hurt Vince. Pain slides in, clearing the lusty haze.
I force myself to stop, pulling my mouth away and sitting up. He still has his fist tangled in my hair though, so he uses it to yank me back over to him, his lips crushing my mouth again in a bruising kiss that I can’t help accepting. The bastard pulls me right back in with his kiss: his lips expressing tenderness, but his firm grip on my hair reminding me he’s in charge.
He pulls me back after a minute, looking into my eyes. “Still don’t want to fuck me?”
Even as I throb with hunger for him, I swear, “I still don’t want to fuck you.”
“I don’t believe you,” he says, pushing me down on my back so I’m on the bed looking up at him.
“Does it matter?” I ask rhetorically.
“No.” At least in this, he’s honest. “Do you want my mouth, Mia?”
“No. I don’t want to come for you.”
Of course, I shouldn’t have told him that. I
realize it immediately when he releases my hair and moves down between my legs, that horrible, beautiful mouth locking onto me, his stupid magical tongue igniting fire with the first few skilled strokes.
The last thing I want to do is beg him, but the second to last thing I want is for him to give me an orgasm. I have to pick one, so even as I clutch at the sheets and throw my head back into the pillow in response to mounting physical pleasure, I beg, “Please stop, Mateo. Please.”
He ignores my begging, clutching my thighs and eating my pussy like I begged him to keep going instead.
I hate how soothing it feels. I hate how every stroke of his tongue against my clit is like a salve to my heart, how his appetite for me feels so reassuring. And then I hate myself as I cry out, moving my hips against his sinful mouth, the source of so much of my pain bringing me a moment of blessedly mind-numbing pleasure.
I collapse against the bed and he moves back over my body, looking into my eyes as he pushes his cock inside me. I’m so wet and my body adjusts quickly to the intrusion.
A helpless moan slips out as he moves inside me, and I hate myself for it.
“Touch me, Mia.”
I shake my head, closing my eyes and letting my head fall to the side. “I don’t want you.”
“Yes, you do,” he argues, his thrust a more little punishing for my disobedience.
“Tell yourself whatever you have to,” I mutter.
The bastard laughs, a low, sexy laugh that makes me so mad I could spit. “I don’t have to tell myself anything, sweetheart. You know that.”
I intend to glare at him again, but since my eyes are still closed, I don’t see him coming; I’m unprepared for him to lean down and start kissing his way up and down my neck again. The sensations of his cock pounding inside me and his mouth on my skin overwhelm me, and I get swept up in this evil bastard again. I feel so much when he’s inside me. The hand he’s not using to brace his weight slips up under the camisole we didn’t bother to take off. He squeezes my breast, his thumb brushing across my nipple. I cry out, not with an orgasm, just because I’m overwhelmed and I want him to stop. I just want him to stop rolling over me, sucking me into this intense vortex where pleasure and pain come together, where right and wrong don’t exist, where he completely consumes me. He gets every single part of me, whether he deserves it or not.