by Penelope Sky
This was so fucked up.
Bones brought everything to the coffee table, the only surface I had for eating. My place was too small for a kitchen table, not if I wanted to have two couches. I never sat at the dinner table when I ate alone anyway, so it seemed like a waste.
He must have picked up on my mood because he asked, “What is it, baby?”
Baby. He called me that every chance he got, and now I didn’t remember how my real name sounded on this tongue. “Nothing…” I turned away from my easel and rose from the stool.
He gave me a stern look, telling me he didn’t believe that answer at all.
“This looks good…” I sat on the floor in front of my plate, keeping my eyes away from his so he couldn’t look into my soul.
Thankfully, he dropped it and walked back into the kitchen. He returned with everything else then sat across from me.
We ate in silence—just like my parents.
Why was this happening? How did this happen? How the hell did we get here?
He drank scotch with his dinner, while I had a glass of wine with mine. He used both utensils to cut into his food, and he ate his meal like a refined man with manners. It was in direct contrast to how barbaric he normally was. But when it came to food, he was the most civilized.
“This is really good.” I was surprised he cooked so well. It was nothing compared to the meals Lars made for me, but it was far superior to anything I could make. “Thanks for making dinner.” I tried to fill the silence with conversation, tried to break the comfortable atmosphere. I didn’t want it to feel so right, to feel so easy.
He turned his blue gaze on me and watched me, subtly hostile. He chewed slowly, his expansive shoulders broad and powerful. He sat perfectly upright, so my eyes still had to shift up in order to look at him. He didn’t say anything, forcing the silence to continue.
Goddammit. I grabbed my wine and took a deep drink.
“What is it?” he repeated.
“What?” I asked, playing dumb.
“You’re too smart to act stupid. Don’t pull that shit with me.” He stared me down before he took another bite of his food.
I didn’t want to tell him the truth, not before I showed him that painting. So I shared something else with him. “My mom told me the owner of that restaurant we went to is good friends with my father…and he told my parents that he saw me on a date with a really handsome man.”
He didn’t give me an arrogant smile at my comment. He stayed hostile, his light-colored eyes aggressive.
“She asked me who the man was…I didn’t tell her.”
“And that was the end of it?”
“She said a few other things, asked me to talk about it. I’ve always been pretty open with her about my personal life. I told her about my first crush, my first kiss…stuff like that. My father has always been overbearing, but my mother has never been that way.”
“But you couldn’t talk about me to her.”
“I wouldn’t even know what to say…and I hate lying to her.”
“Then don’t lie,” he said simply.
“You know I can’t do that…”
He took a long drink of his scotch, keeping his eyes on me.
“I hate being so secretive, but I have no choice. When she reminded me that she and my father would like to meet someone I’m seeing, I told her that wasn’t necessary. My father implied he would only want to meet the man I’ll probably marry…and I told her you weren’t that man. Hopefully, that put it to rest.” I drank my wine again, hoping my story was enough to persuade him that he meant nothing to me. I had to poison the well while I had a chance. When he saw that painting, I didn’t know what would happen.
His expression didn’t change at all. That information didn’t mean anything to him. He drank his scotch again. “You don’t have to lie to her if you don’t want to. You could always ask me to leave and never come back. Then there would be nothing to lie about.” He must have known I wouldn’t do that. If that were a possibility, he wouldn’t still be in my apartment, cooking dinner and pretending everything was perfectly normal.
I drank my wine again, a pathetic attempt to cover my silence.
“It’s okay, baby. I’m just as addicted to you as you are to me.”
I didn’t want to go out and meet someone new. I didn’t want to picture myself with another man. All I wanted was this…but he was evil. He was a threat to my family and everything that I cared about. How could I possibly want his company, in and out of bed? “What did you do while I was away?” I wanted to talk about anything but the obviously fucked-up situation between us.
“I had a hit in Budapest. Then I went out with Max a few times.” He cut into his food again.
“How’d it go? The hit?”
“I was in and out in thirty minutes. Did my job, then got paid.”
I was still repulsed by what he did for a living. I wanted to say it out loud, but I didn’t want him to throw out accusations that my family wasn’t any better. “Did you get hurt?”
The corner of his mouth rose in a smile. “I like it when my baby worries.”
I looked down at my food and took a bite. “Did you?”
“Don’t worry, not a scratch.”
“And where did you go with Max?”
“A few bars.” He dropped his smile and turned serious. “Spent most of my time wondering when you would be back.”
“Why didn’t you call?”
“I was under the impression you didn’t want me to.”
I didn’t…but I did. I’d wanted to call him a few times, but I refused to stoop to that level. But the second I was home, I did anyway. “Did you hook up with anyone?” I hated myself for asking that question. I hated myself for caring. But I did care. It tore me up inside to think about him being with another woman. A man like him could have any woman he wanted. He didn’t even have to open his mouth and speak, and they’d hop into bed with him.
Instead of smiling in arrogance, he just a gave a subtle shake of his head. “No.”
I tried to mask the deep breath I pushed out of my lungs, but I knew nothing escaped his notice. He already knew I was jealous. Insanely jealous. Like, red in the face kinda jealous.
“I said no. But good to know you still want my answer to be no.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“But you were getting pissed. It’s been three months, baby. I know you. I know you better than you want me to know you.”
I wanted to pick up my plate and throw it at his head. I hated this. I hated everything about it. And I hated the fact that he was right.
We finished our dinner in silence, back to our comfortable coexistence. When his plate was empty and most of my food was gone, he cleared the dishes and took them to the sink.
“I’ll wash them since you cooked.”
He didn’t give a protest and walked into the living room to turn on the TV.
I scrubbed everything and put it in the dishwasher, but I despised myself for doing it. Now we had a routine—like a fucking married couple.
I grabbed one plate and slammed it into the sink, making it shatter with a bang.
Bones didn’t come back into the room.
I stared at the broken plate and listened to the water run. Bones had given me my freedom, but it didn’t make any difference. I’d never been his prisoner. I’d always been a prisoner to myself. I could ask him to leave, but I didn’t want to.
I wanted him to stay.
Bones came to my side then picked up the pieces of plate without asking what happened.
“I can take care of it.”
“I don’t want you to cut your hands. You need them to paint.” He picked up everything, nicking himself without expressing a hint of pain. He tossed everything in the garbage then went back into the living room so he could watch TV.
I finished the dishes then returned to the living room. He was lying on the couch, all muscle and power. His ink contrasted against his beautiful skin, a
nd the glow from the fire made the tattoos stand out even more.
My knee hit the couch, and I prepared to lie on top of him, my favorite place to rest while watching TV in the evenings.
But he steadied me with his hand and sat up. “We had a deal.” He sat back against the couch and stared at me with his innate power, reminding me of the agreement we’d made earlier that morning.
Was I stupid to hope he would forget?
He kept staring at me, waiting for me to do what he asked.
I sighed through my nose, irritated that so much was going wrong. I went to my parents’ house to clear my head, but now my mind was even more foggy.
“Now.”
I wanted to slap him across the face for making the command, but since he would only enjoy it, I walked into the bedroom and picked up the painting. I didn’t unwrap it for him, wanting to make it as difficult as possible for him to see what I’d created.
I set it down next to the couch then turned for the bedroom.
“Where are you going?”
I halted before I reached the hallway, keeping my back to him. “You said you wanted to see the painting. There it is.”
“Get your ass back here.”
I should just keep walking, but I didn’t.
“Don’t make me ask you again.”
“What happened to my free will?”
“Doesn’t apply here. Whatever fear you have about this painting needs to be conquered. You should never feel ashamed of anything you make. Without even looking at it, I know it’ll be stunning.”
I closed my eyes. “You don’t understand…”
“I understand better than you think. Now, get over here.”
I finally turned around and walked back to the couch.
He nodded to the seat beside him.
I obeyed him, and I felt so pathetic doing it. I sat on the couch beside him, feeling the heat emitting from his bare torso. He couldn’t read my mind, but looking at that painting was like glimpsing into my deepest thoughts. I should have just sold it or burned it. Or better yet, I shouldn’t have painted it in the first place.
Bones looked at me for a moment longer before he grabbed the large painting and placed it across his lap. He carefully tore the brown paper away from the frame and stripped away every piece until all the coverings were removed. He hadn’t looked at the painting yet because he was too busy concentrating on preserving the frame.
He tilted it up, held it with both hands, and finally looked at it.
I could have sworn that my heart stopped beating.
He stared at the image in front of him, his eyes wide open and not blinking. The fire crackled in the background, the low-burning flames casting a glow that constantly changed as the fire rose and fell. The TV was off now, so all I could hear was our breathing and the fireplace.
His eyes hadn’t left the painting, taking it in just as he did with my other pieces. He wasn’t an art aficionado, but he appreciated the art in front of him. His eyes naturally followed the lines I created, and he stared at the representation of himself as he stared across the lake.
There was no mistaking it was him.
He didn’t seem surprised to see himself. He didn’t seem surprised by the image I decided to paint. His face was impossible to read, focused like I wasn’t even there at all. His eyes started to shift around, to stare at the details of the trees and the texture of the snow. Then his eyes moved to the water in the distance, the small dock that extended twenty feet into the lake. He’d just dropped a body there, but there wasn’t a hint of that in the painting. The van wasn’t in sight, and I wasn’t there either.
It was just him.
It cast him in a light he didn’t show often, a likeness of himself as a man instead of a killer. He appreciated the view around him like any man would, and his broad shoulders seemed to be weighed down by a pain only he could see.
I saw him in a way no one else did. He picked up women all the time, but they only saw his handsome face, impressive physique, and his sexy ink. They didn’t know about his past, his occupation.
I knew about all those things, but it didn’t stop me from looking at him like that.
Like he was just a man.
I saw all of him, from the boy who lost his mother, to the man who wanted to avenge his legacy. I saw in him all the good and all the bad. I accepted him for who he was, even accepted his flaws.
Accepted his blood war.
Could he see all of that as he looked at the picture? Could he see my affection, my need for him? Could he see everything I’d been trying to hide?
Thirty minutes passed, and he still seemed enamored of the picture, looking at every detail like he might have missed something. He didn’t say a single word to show his opinion, and his expression didn’t give anything away either.
When he finished, he put it on the floor and leaned it against the coffee table.
My heart was beating so fast I could feel the blood pound in my ears. I felt weak and terrified, unsure what Bones would think about my creation. It obviously meant something to him because he wouldn’t have stared at it for so long.
He shifted forward with his elbows on his knees, his eyes looking at nothing in particular. His jaw was clenched, not in anger, but with tension. His hands came together, and he rubbed them slightly.
I waited for him to say something, but it didn’t seem like anything was going to be said. Our silence used to make me feel comfortable, but now it was making me anxious. I didn’t know if he was thinking about walking out the door or staying beside me. I didn’t know where we stood anymore. I could usually feel whatever he was feeling—but this time, I didn’t have a clue.
Finally, his baritone broke the silence. “That’s how you see me?” He finally turned my way, his beautiful blue eyes looking into mine. His look wasn’t cold but seared me like a flame. There wasn’t a trace of hostility or rage.
He’d asked a question, but I wasn’t sure if it was a genuine one. “It’s just a painting…”
“It’s not just a painting, baby,” he whispered. “That must have taken you a long time to make. When I looked at it, I could feel the cold… I can feel my breath escape as vapor. I could feel the way that bullet pierced my shoulder.” He rubbed the area, like the bullet was still lodged deep inside his flesh. “I could feel the way my lips burned when I kissed you for the first time. I could feel the deep loneliness inside my chest, that solitude I feel anytime I’m up in Lake Garda. I could feel the way you fought me, the way you impressed me when you crawled across the ground because that taser had no effect on you. I relived that entire night, but more vividly than when I actually lived it.”
My eyes moved down, touched by everything he just said.
“Look at me.”
I didn’t think twice before I obeyed, my eyes shifting back up to look at him.
“That’s how talented you are,” he whispered. “That’s how powerful you are.”
“Powerful?” I whispered.
“You made me feel something… You always make me feel something. You manipulate my emotions without even realizing it. I’ve seen all of your artwork, and I know the only people you ever depict are your family.”
Shit.
“But you painted me…”
No. No. No.
I looked away again, unable to see the knowledge in his eyes.
“Baby.”
This time, I wouldn’t look at him again.
“Don’t be afraid of me.”
“It’s not you that I’m afraid of…”
“Don’t be afraid of us.”
I closed my eyes, wishing all of this would stop. I felt so much guilt, so much rage. I didn’t want to be there in that moment. I didn’t want to be stuck in this sick and twisted situation. If only he said or did something that could sever our ties altogether, everything would be so much easier.
“I asked you to make that painting for me so I would always have a piece of you. I want to put it in my office
in Lake Garda. That way I can remember what we had. I can stare at it while I drink my scotch and smoke my cigars. I want to remember how all of this felt…and never forget. Because you aren’t like any other woman I’ve ever been with, Vanessa. And I know I’m not like any other man you’ve been with. When all of this is over…we’ll both never forget what we had.”
I opened my eyes again, relieved that he didn’t see more into the painting. I didn’t want him to think I wanted forever, that I wanted this perverse arrangement to continue indefinitely. We were both addicted to each other, addicted to the good sex and the scorching chemistry. One day, we would walk away from each other. Bones might be my enemy forever, and I would have to face him across a battlefield. Or he would let this blood war go, and he would disappear from my life.
Either way, the outcome was the same.
There was no future for us.
He understood that. I understood that.
These paintings were just snapshots of moments in time. They showed the way we viewed each other, the way we wanted to remember one another.
“You really know me,” he whispered. “Better than anyone…”
“I do?”
He nodded. “And I think I know you better than anyone too.”
I wanted to tell him that wasn’t true, that it would never be true. My biggest enemy was my closest confidant. He was the man I shared all things with, including my body. But an argument was futile, so there was no point in denying it.
I had to accept the painful truth—and try to swallow it.
8
Bones
I had a lot of different hobbies.
I liked to kill.
Drink.
Fuck.
And watch sports.
That was pretty much everything.
But now I had a new hobby, a hobby I acquired three months ago.
Vanessa Barsetti.
I sucked her clit into my mouth and gave it a gentle bite before I swirled my tongue around her nub, tasting her beautiful pussy. My tongue delved into her slit, reaching the moisture that had already pooled for me a long time ago. A man usually went down on a woman to make her wet, but with my baby, I didn’t need to do that.