Unholy Union: Unholy Union Duet Book 1

by Knight, Natasha

  He’s not smiling anymore, and his eyes take on a distant look. He blinks, shakes his head, then they focus on me again, intense and dark. His gaze then follows his hand as he slides it down over my belly, down to the hair between my thighs.

  I squeeze my legs together.

  “Damian?”

  I watch his Adam’s apple bob when he swallows.

  My gaze mirrors his, down between my legs. To watch his big, scarred hand on me. This, whatever is happening here, whatever this is, it’s erotic. Sexual. But it’s not just that. I know it, as strange as it is. It’s not as simple as that.

  It would be easier if it were.

  “Damian?” Does he hear how my voice quakes?

  He shifts his hand to his own chest, and I watch him smear blood from the scratch onto his fingers. I watch as he smears those fingers over my sex, and I don’t miss the erection pressing against his wet jeans before he meets my eyes again.

  “You’re mine,” he says like it’s the first time he’s truly understanding it. Like he wants to be sure I hear him. Wants to be sure I understand it.

  For a long moment, we remain like that, my heart thudding against my chest. Is his beating as fast?

  It feels like an eternity later when he draws his hand away, releases my wrists, and stands.

  I sit up a little, closing the towel around me as I watch him walk to the door.

  He stops. Turns. I’m not sure what just happened between us.

  “Tonight, you’ll go to bed hungry. Less of a punishment than you deserve.”

  I swallow.

  “I’ll be back for you tomorrow night. Eight o’clock. If you’re not ready, you won’t eat tomorrow either. Do you understand?” His voice is tight.

  There’s a darkness inside Damian. I just had a glimpse of it and it should repel me.

  “Do you understand, Cristina?”

  I nod. Yes, I understand.

  This man is not playing games. This isn’t a game at all.

  He nods too just before he walks out the door and locks me in.

  11

  Damian

  I turn the key in the lock. It sounds final and heavy, but it won’t keep the monster out when it wants in.

  When I want in.

  I walk away from her room, even my shoes soaked, down the narrow, dimly lit corridor and to my own room to change my clothes before going downstairs.

  I’m not sure what the fuck I’m feeling or thinking. Why I asked her that particular question. Don’t I know the answer? I won’t ever stop dreaming it.

  She is mine. Yes. But what happened in there, it’s not what I intended. I meant to punish her. To be indifferent when I did.

  But I wasn’t. I wanted her.

  I didn’t expect to want her. Not like this. As a means to an end, yes. The sacrifice. I didn’t expect this.

  The scratches on my chest burn, but that’s good. They’ll serve as a reminder tonight. Make me feel oddly closer to her.

  That’s the first time I’ve ever mentioned my dreams. And I need to be careful. I need to remember who she is and, more importantly, what she is to me. What she has to be to me.

  I pull on a dark wool sweater, a pair of jeans, and change into different shoes. I walk into the bathroom to brush my hair. Before I do, though, I bring my hand to my nose, and I smell the faint scent of her.

  Fuck.

  It’s like scenting blood, injured prey to a starved beast.

  And that’s exactly what she is. My prey.

  That is all she is.

  I wonder if my father will be present enough to see past this mask of arrogance tonight. I wonder if he’ll know how she has impacted me in the short time I’ve had her.

  He too is a predator. Even now. Even given his deteriorated state. Will he smell my blood?

  I school my features and watch my reflection. I turn on the water to wash my hands but turn it off again before I do. I want her smell on me.

  Before I walk out into the hallway, I listen at the door that connects my room to hers. Silence. I imagine her inside curled up on the bed trying to make sense of what just happened.

  I head out of my room and through the corridor to the stairs to where I can already hear Bennie’s voice as he tells one of his jokes.

  This is good. This will get me out of my head.

  Because when I’m around Cristina, I’m not in control. And it’s not rage or hate I feel. Those would be acceptable. Expected.

  Bennie gets to the punch line. They’re bad, the jokes, but I love the fact that he tells them. That he brings laughter into this house.

  It was worth what I had to do to get him here. I wonder if Michela agrees since she’d say it’s she who paid. It cost me too, though. Cost me a piece of my humanity, and there wasn’t much left of that to begin with.

  My mind wanders to Cristina again. Cristina alone in her room probably confused and definitely terrified. But that’s what I want, isn’t it?

  I can’t help but think about the fact that she was a child at the time of the accident. Although she grew up impacted by the consequences, she still had a childhood. I wonder if it was a happy one. I doubt it. But whatever the case, she’s definitely ill-prepared for this. For me.

  She’ll go to bed hungry, but one night won’t kill her. It’ll be a good lesson, and she does need to learn. I was serious about the monsters in this house. I see one just as I step onto the first-floor landing and turn toward the warmly lit living and dining rooms.

  “Uncle Damian!” Bennie comes rushing toward me, carrying a toy airplane in his hand.

  I push thoughts of the naked girl locked away upstairs out of my head and smile as I bend down to scoop him up.

  “Bennie!” I hug him, noting the toy soldiers and Nerf guns left untouched in their boxes. My nephew doesn’t have any inclination to play with them. Nothing with anything violent, in fact. He must get that from his father. It’s certainly not from our side of the family.

  “Damian.” My father’s voice, even though quieter as he’s aged, still booms in my ears and turns the blood in my veins to ice.

  I set Bennie down and look toward my father. Feeble. That’s the first word anyone would think. He can’t weigh more than ninety-five pounds at this point. His cancer ridden body is finally turning on him.

  And I still hate him. I feel nothing but contempt for him.

  His wheelchair sits beside the large fireplace where wood crackles. I wonder if Johnny, his one trusted soldier, didn’t place him too close to it. I wonder if Johnny or anyone would save him if a spark alighted on the wool blanket covering his legs. I know my answer.

  “Father,” I say in greeting.

  “Where is the girl?” he barks.

  “In her room.”

  “Why isn’t she here?”

  “It’s not yet time.” I glance at Bennie. Would my father destroy his innocence if he could?

  He snorts his displeasure before taking the whiskey Elise offers him from the tray. He really shouldn’t be drinking at all, considering his cocktail of pills he’s on, but I don’t stop him. None of us do.

  Michela watches us from her place on the pink chaise. My mother decorated this room ages ago. It’s strange to think that my father allowed all the feminine colors and touches. It’s certainly not like him. He’s like a ball of barbed wire. He will shred anyone through. But she was almost thirty years younger than him when he married her, so he indulged her. At least in his own way. This was one such indulgence.

  “You’re wasting time,” he says.

  His time. Is he counting his days like I am?

  “She’s been here not twenty-four hours.” I move to the bar where Elise is mixing a cocktail for my sister.

  “When do you think it’ll be time?” he asks, the expression on his old face the usual one of utter disappointment he’s worn ever since I can remember. I wonder if Lucas hadn’t left if he’d look at him that way too.

  But this thing between my father and me, it’s unique. And now
that I’ve taken over control of the business and the family, we’ve almost become rivals, he and I.

  I stand tall, eyeing him dismissively. Exactly as I learned from him. He hates it, I know. Even without the paralysis—a result of the stroke, although he still blames Valentina for it—I’d still be bigger than him. Stronger than him. It wasn’t always the case and he never had any problem beating someone half his size. I wonder if he fears that I’m just like him. That I’ll someday return the favor.

  “It’ll be time when I say it’s time,” I tell him reminding him who is head of this family now. I reach around the bar to the bottle of whiskey and pour one for myself. An image of Cristina’s naked body dances before my eyes. Pretty skin. Perfect skin but for that scar. I wonder if it’s more sensitive for it. My arm is. I feel everything more acutely than I did before, even though the doctors say it’s impossible.

  I want her more for it, for her damage. We’re connected, she and I. We were bound, handfasted, the night of the accident.

  Bennie walks over to my father’s chair. Bennie is short for Benedict. Michela had to legally change his name to my father’s before he’d accept her back at the house. That was one of his demands.

  Michela looks up at me, then our father. I think he still scares her more. Or maybe it’s that she hates him more. I wonder if she knows the full extent of his involvement in Bennie’s father’s accident.

  In our father’s eyes, she betrayed him, and the family, when she ran away with that man. He’s not one to forget, and he never forgives. Even after you’ve paid.

  Family.

  Ours will choke the life out of you.

  “I’m hungry, Grandpa,” Bennie says, taking the old man’s scraggly hand. I want to tell him to step away. To drop his hand before all that hatred infects him. Steals his innocence.

  “Bennie.” Michela stands, getting ready to pull him back. I wonder if she is thinking the same thing.

  But my father pats his head and smiles. He actually fucking smiles. “Elise,” he barks.

  “Sir?”

  “The boy is hungry.”

  “Dinner is served,” Elise says, rushing to hit the gong against the far wall of the dining room to alert the kitchen staff.

  Bennie and Michela take their seats at the table. I swallow the remainder of my drink and set the glass on the mantle. I block Johnny from wheeling my father to his new place at the foot of the table to do it myself.

  When I make a point of taking the napkin and setting it on his lap, he glowers at me.

  I smile in response.

  Because fuck him. I will remind him daily of his damage like he reminded me for so many years of mine.

  The meal is served, and the wine poured. Bennie does most of the talking and it’s when we’re almost finished that he asks if Simona is here.

  Michela gives me a hard look.

  “No, Bennie. Simona’s cousin, Cristina, is here,” I answer.

  “Will Simona come? She was nice.”

  “When did you meet Simona?” my father asks, putting a forkful of meat that’s already been cut into pieces by Elise or one of the other staff into his mouth.

  “We played together.”

  Slicing into my steak, I watch the juices pool red around it.

  “Did you?” my father asks, his eyes finding mine as I sit back and chew. My gaze is unwavering. I don’t answer to him. Not anymore.

  “Damian thought it would send the right message,” Michela offers, ever helpful.

  “Will Cristina play with me?” Bennie asks.

  “She is not your friend, boy,” my father spits through his mouthful. The menace in his voice confuses Bennie, who tilts his head to try to understand.

  “She’s older than Simona is what your grandfather means,” I say. As much as I like having him around, I need to get him out of here. For now, at least. Until things with Cristina settle or until my father dies—whichever comes first.

  “Oh.”

  My father picks through his plate. “What I mean is that she is the reason your grandmother and your aunt are—”

  “Aren’t you taking Bennie to the city next week?” I ask my sister, cutting him off. “He hasn’t seen his Great-aunt Norah in a while.” Norah is my mother’s sister.

  “Is that allowed?” Michela asks me with a fake smile.

  “It would be good for him to spend a few weeks in the city,” I say.

  “But I like it here,” Bennie chimes in.

  “The boy should bear witness,” my father says, stabbing the last of his meat with his fork. “If you fail, the responsibility to punish our enemies will fall on his shoulders.”

  “And what an inheritance it would be,” I say casually, chewing my food.

  My father glares.

  “Mommy?” Bennie starts, confused. “What does Grandpa mean?”

  “Nothing,” I answer him, my eyes on my father across the table. “He’s a child,” I tell him then turn to my sister. “Michela.” I put my fork and knife down and push my chair back. I have no appetite. “Make arrangements to leave in the morning. Simeon will accompany you. I’ll let you know when you can return.”

  “Simeon?” She hates Simeon because he actually has the balls to stand up to her, but my sister needs someone to look after her. She’s reckless.

  “Yes. If you’ll excuse me. Elise.” She steps forward, and I think how much I dislike the old woman. She went from nanny to housekeeper. And in all those years, she never raised a hand to help or protect us when we were too young to stand up for ourselves. “Give my compliments to your husband.” Her husband is our chef.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  I walk out of the dining room and cross the house to climb the stairs up to my wing. I don’t take the old servant’s passage, so I won’t pass by Cristina’s door.

  In my bedroom I strip off my clothes to change into an old work shirt, jeans, and boots. I walk to the door between our rooms and listen for her. I almost give up when I finally hear her. She’s quietly crying, and I wish I could see her eyes. I like the color they turn when she cries. And I know it’s sick that I don’t want to wipe those tears away.

  No.

  I want to taste them.

  12

  Cristina

  Movement in the garden catches my eye, and I get up. Wrapping my arms around myself, I walk to the window and watch as the light bobs in the dark. A flashlight. Whoever it is, is walking toward the woods. It’s late, and I wonder why anyone would go out in that utter darkness this time of night.

  Just before that light disappears into the trees, the wind clears the moon, and I see that it’s Damian.

  He looks up at the same time. I think he means to look at the moon, but I swear even from this distance his eyes meet mine, and he stops.

  I can’t move. Can’t hide.

  He stays where he is for a moment, then, just as clouds obscure the moon again, he disappears into the thicket of trees.

  It’s so still I wonder if I didn’t imagine what just happened because it’s pitch-black out there. What would he be doing in the woods so late at night?

  I shake my head and go into the bathroom to get a drink of water. I notice his sweater then, discarded on the rack. I pick it up. The wool is soft. Highest quality stuff. My uncle had many pieces like this. I recognize the designer’s label.

  For reasons I can’t explain, I bring it to my nose and inhale his scent. Instantly, my body has a physical reaction to that smell. It takes me right back to when we were on the bed. Back to his dark eyes on me. To his hand between my legs.

  Because I should have been repulsed by it. By his touch.

  But I wasn’t. I was wet.

  I drop the sweater as if it were burning me. What the fuck is wrong with me? I hate him. That’s all I need to think or feel as far as anything having to do with Damian Di Santo.

  I walk back into my bedroom and get into the bed. My stomach growls angrily. Water won’t satisfy it, but I have no choice. Will he really no
t feed me until dinnertime tomorrow?

  Leaving the light on, I close my eyes. I fight every single thought of him, every image. I banish them and him to hell because that is where he belongs.

  * * *

  After showering the following morning, I push the heavy leather armchair in front of the window to sit and wait. My stomach hurts from lack of food.

  I try to think about people who have it worse than me. People for whom starvation is a part of daily life. I can’t feel sorry for myself. I’ve had more than most growing up. I’ve also lost more than most.

  I fail to focus on more honorable thoughts. I’m hungry and I’m selfish, I guess. Or spoiled and weak. Probably all of the above.

  Rain falls in intervals from heavy to light. Every now and again, the sun breaks through the cover of clouds, all the while, a dense fog hangs over the forest and mountain.

  I think about last night. About seeing him out there. Again, I wonder if it was my imagination. Am I going to lose my mind being locked up in here?

  In the afternoon, I take a book from the cave-like study room and sit on the bed to read. I must doze off, though, because when I open my eyes again, it’s to the sound of the key turning in the lock.

  Disoriented, I rub my eyes and straighten up. The book is lying face-down beside me, and the only light is coming in from the moon outside.

  The door opens as I reach to switch on the lamp beside the bed.

  Damian enters and his eyes fall instantly on me. He checks his watch, and as if remembering, my stomach growls loudly.

  I close my hand over it, embarrassed.

  He smiles.

  “What time is it?” I’m pathetic. Physically weak after one day without food.

  “Eight o’clock.”

  I touch my hair, wonder what I look like. “I fell asleep.” I don’t know why I tell him. I mean, it’s kind of obvious.

  “Are you ready for dinner?”

  I nod. Hunger makes me compliant. “I need to use the bathroom.” I don’t. I haven’t had anything to eat or drink but a little bit of water. I just need a minute alone to prepare for him. To steel myself.