by Skye Warren
My eyes close. I’d been afraid of that. Afraid that Byron’s connections and money were worth seeing my sister hurt. Byron may be relatively new to the scene, but he’s ambitious. And like Brutus, an ambitious man is a dangerous one. He has money and connections. My father is old and growing weaker. The other factions could see it as an opportunity to take over. So he’s solidified his rule by grooming Byron to take over—and marrying his oldest daughter to him as insurance.
I swallow hard. Our father never took much interest in me, except in the worst way.
Probably the rumors are true and I’m not really his daughter. I don’t have the dark hair and olive skin that marks our family. I have strawberry-blonde hair and freckles. But he’s always been fond of Honor. If he is willing to sacrifice her to assure our position, he must really have been worried about a takeover.
“What can Byron even do for him?” I ask, half angry, half wondering.
Honor lifts one shoulder. “He has everyone intimidated. Judges. Drug suppliers. He’s working both sides.”
I stare at the place where the bruises are. I can’t see them when the fabric rests naturally away from her skin. I’m sure that’s on purpose. She must keep an inventory of where her bruises are and make sure they’re covered up. It makes me exhausted—and desperate.
“Then let’s go,” I say. We don’t need Gio to take us away. We can leave ourselves.
She frowns, her delicate eyebrows drawing together. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying let’s run away. Just you and me.” My throat goes tight as I imagine never seeing Gio again. And I tell her the same thing I told him, though my voice cracks this time. “It will be an adventure.”
Her head is shaking no no no. “They’d find us. There’s no way, Clara. Don’t even say the words.”
But I’ve already said them. And once they’re out, I can’t put them away. Not when I close my eyes and see the dark bluish imprint of Byron’s fingers. “We’ll find some way to hide. To go underground. It has to be better than this, than you getting hurt.”
“And what will we do for money?”
“I don’t know. Something. I don’t need all this.” I wave my hand to indicate the ornate antique furniture and expensive artwork. These aren’t things I chose for myself. They are part of the cage that keeps me here. Money and family and obligation. All of them bind me.
“It’s impossible,” she says, her voice wistful. “I thought of leaving once. I even had a plan. But…”
“But what?”
“But you’re still a minor, Clara. You couldn’t work. You couldn’t even be seen.”
My heart clenches. I would be a liability to her. “You could leave without me.”
Her eyes flare with something—memory? Betrayal? Our mother left us both. The official story is that she died in a car crash. But everyone knows she wasn’t allowed to drive. And the casket at her funeral was closed. If she did drive that day, she was leaving. And if she died that day, it means my father caught her.
“I will never leave you.” She says it like a vow—fierce.
My eyes grow hot with tears. “Me either,” I promise her. Even if Gio showed up, ready to take me away. Even if that girlish dream came true. I’d never leave without Honor. She’s my sister. I love her. And that’s why I can’t stand by and let Byron hurt her. There’s no fighting a man like that.
The only way to keep her safe is to take her away.
* * *
The next night I creep across the grass. The bottoms of my feet feel extra sensitive when I do this. Maybe my sense of touch is heightened because of fear. Or because I’m about to see Gio. I can feel every blade of grass tickle my feet, every bump and dip in the earth. Even the night air becomes a tactile thing, blowing gently against my skin, leaving goose bumps in its wake.
When I reach the pool house, the door opens. “Clara,” he whispers.
I smile back, relieved. A part of me had worried that he wouldn’t come tonight. He’d seemed freaked out by the kiss. All through eating samples of pork forestiere and shrimp kabobs from the caterer, I’d been thinking about him. What was he eating? What was he thinking?
The pool house is dark, like always.
I slip inside and toss myself on the couch, like always.
He looks outside to make sure no one spotted me. Like always.
Then he shuts the door and makes his way over to me. This is different, though. He’s walking stiffly. Strangely. It stirs a memory in me. The way Honor sometimes walks when Byron has been rough with her.
I sit up. “Are you hurt?”
He doesn’t answer. He just sits down—slowly. Carefully.
“You are hurt,” I say, accusing. Then I’m up and by his side, hands hovering. I don’t want to touch whatever bruise he has and make it worse. “What happened?”
“It’s nothing.”
I shut my eyes. The only two people in my life I care about are being beaten, being abused, and I am helpless to stop it. “Your father?”
“Not this time.”
I kneel beside the armchair he’s in. “Who then?”
He sighs and leans his head all the way back. “Some assholes.”
I run my hands over his leg that’s closest to me—his thigh, his calf, his ankles. He doesn’t flinch or pull away, so I hope that means this side is okay. “Where does it hurt? I can get some ice.”
“No ice.” His voice has gone deeper.
A part of me, some deep and ancient part of me, knows it’s because my hands are on him. It makes me bolder. I move closer, between his legs now. “Or maybe some bandages? Did you have any cuts? You should put antibiotics in them so you don’t get an infection.”
His laugh is harsh. “No bandages, bella.”
God, his voice when he says that. I can almost forget he’s injured. I can almost forget he’s seventeen and I’m fifteen. I can forget that our fathers would kill us if they found us together.
“What then?” If I can make him feel better a different way, I will. I run my hands up his calves, his thighs—his hands grab my wrists, stopping me.
“No anything,” he says, his voice thick with pain. Or with something else.
I don’t fight his hold on my wrists. I let him keep me there. And I rest my head on his thigh. It’s not really meant to be seductive, even though I can feel the slope of his jeans. Even though I can see the bulge just inches away from my face. I know he’s not going to do anything dirty to me. I’d probably like it if he did, but he won’t. Just like he won’t kiss me again. But he doesn’t make me move away.
Instead he lets out an unsteady breath and releases my wrists. I remain there, kneeling in front of him, resting my cheek on his thigh.
His broad hand brushes over my temple, my cheek. He plays with the braid of my hair for a moment before resuming his gentle, rhythmic stroking. He’s not touching anywhere below my neck, but my whole body lights up with it, tense and languorous at the same time.
It’s a strange feeling, like being a beloved pet. An owned thing. Cared for. Cherished.
It’s somehow sweeter than being the unwanted bastard daughter.
“I shouldn’t let you come here,” he mutters.
“Don’t,” I say. I can’t bear when he talks like that, as if he might not show up one of these days. It’s a lifeline for me, a breath of air while I’m drowning. And if I run away with Honor, then each one of these visits could be my last. Tears spring to my eyes, dampening the denim of his jeans.
“Shh,” he soothes. “I won’t make you stop.”
He traces the line of my jaw and the curve of my ear. His blunt finger trails all the way down my neck.
“So pretty,” he says. “Do you know, bella? I hurt with it, how pretty you are.”
And then I’m hurting too, his words like whiskey. They will take getting used to. I need so much more.
“Byron is hurting her,” I whisper. Because it’s the only way I know how to tell him. We’ll have to leave soon. I can’t let him
keep hurting her.
His hand stills, and I think he must understand my secret message. “All the men hurt women here,” he says. His tone is so dark, so unlike him.
I look up at him. “Gio?”
His hand encircles my neck, forcing my chin up. He just rests his hand there, his palm flush against my skin. Not squeezing. Just holding. “Are you afraid of me?”
I tremble because of the pain in his expression, in his voice. I am afraid—for my sister, for him. I’m afraid I’ll break down and stay just so I can be near him, even if that means condemning my sister for life. But I’m not afraid that he’ll hurt me. “No.”
“You should be.” He leans forward and whispers in my ear. “I’ve done things you couldn’t imagine.”
A tear slides down my cheek. Whatever these things are, they cause him pain. I see it in him. I feel it. And he has no choice—no more than Honor has a choice.
“You’d never hurt me,” I say. My voice is wobbling because I’m hurting for him. But I mean every word. It’s not the first time he’s tried to scare me away. I’m not afraid of him.
The anger I feel in him slides away, replaced by something else. Desire.
His eyes are almost glowing in the moonlight streaming through the window. He removes his hand from my neck. His thumb brushes over my lips, back and forth. Back and forth.
My breath catches. Without even thinking, my lips part.
Then the tip of his thumb is pressing inside my mouth. He gently nudges my lips further apart. I don’t understand all that’s happening, don’t know everything he wants, but I know how to take his lead. This is just like kissing, except instead of his lips and his tongue, it’s his thumb.
He presses until his thumb is half in my mouth, and then it’s only natural to close my lips and suck gently. He makes a soft sound, like a grunt. It sounds like need. Like relief.
The texture of his thumb is rough on my tongue. I slide it against him. He makes a hissing sound and shifts his hips. I never realized my tongue has this much power. Just a flick and the large frame of him tightens.
Before I am ready, he removes his thumb. It’s still wet from my mouth when he rubs it along my lips, painting them, at first hot and then cold when he pulls away completely.
I feel like I’m in a trance when I stare up at him. He could ask me for anything, and I’d give it.
He knows that.
He leans forward and places a chaste kiss on my forehead. “Tomorrow,” he says. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Chapter Three
I stare at the wood paneling, holding my breath. I’m not sure what I think this is going to accomplish. Still, I can’t quite bring myself to knock. My father is waiting on the other side of that door.
Did he notice the cigars I took?
I’d be in trouble then. But even more trouble if he found out I’ve been sneaking out of the house.
My palms are damp, my breathing erratic. Once I knock on the door, I’ll hear my father’s voice. Come in. He answers that way every time. He’s said those words to me more often than my own name. The sound of him saying them is both comforting and scary.
When I got the summons to come downstairs, I considered going to my sister. I needed her to give me a hug and tell me everything is going to be all right. But she has her own problems to deal with, including a puffy eye and split lip.
And I’m old enough now to know those promises are empty.
She can’t make sure this turns out all right. Not for me and not for herself.
I take a deep breath and blow it out. Then I knock.
“Come in.”
Shock races down my spine. I can’t make myself move. I know exactly whose voice that is. Not my father’s.
The door opens in front of me. It’s not sweet, like when Giovanni does it. Not chivalrous. Byron looks impatient. “I said come in,” he snaps.
I jump, imagining that voice snapping at Honor, those hands hurting her. He doesn’t wait to see if I follow him—he already knows that I will. And I do, shutting the door behind me, a hollow feeling in my stomach. I regret not going to see my sister now, even though it wouldn’t have helped. In fact she might have insisted on coming with me as a show of support, and that would just get her hurt even more.
If anyone’s getting hurt now, it will be me.
“Sit down,” Byron says more calmly, perching on the edge of the desk.
My father sits in his chair, watching me with a blank expression. Why didn’t he tell me to come in? Because he’s just a figurehead now. He knows it. I know it.
And Byron sure as heck knows it.
My father leans forward. “I’ve been talking to Byron about your work. I showed him some of your paintings.”
My eyebrows shoot up. I thought he barely knew about my painting. And to think he showed them to someone else, like a proud father? My throat gets tight.
“It’s important for young girls to have hobbies,” Byron says. “I’ve been trying to get Honor to pick up riding, but she claims she’s afraid of horses.”
My eyes narrow, but I force them to look normal. Honor doesn’t claim she’s afraid of horses—she is afraid of them. And maybe if she wasn’t busy dodging his fists and doctoring herself, she’d have more time for hobbies.
As if Byron senses my anger, he smiles. “But you are different from her, aren’t you?”
Is that a jab at my parentage? I snap my gaze to my father. Something dark flickers in his eyes. And that’s it. There was a time a man could be beaten for even implying dishonor. And here was this man, with his shiny shoes and his slick hair and his butt on my father’s desk, getting away with everything.
It makes me angry. “Is there a reason you called me, Papa?”
“Byron and I would like you to attend the party.”
Sweet. Finally I get to be part of something. And hey, it’s my sister’s engagement party. Even if she is getting engaged to a monster, I should be there.
Just as quickly, suspicion rolls through me. “Just last week you were saying I’m too young. Why did you change your mind?”
My father’s hard expression slips, and just for a moment I see the desperation underneath. He’s a man holding on to the ledge. And one of these days, he’s going to get a push—from the man sitting on his desk.
Byron’s genial expression doesn’t fool me for a second. “I convinced him you were a big girl,” he says with a wink. “You are, aren’t you?”
What a creep. “Of course I am.”
The look he gives my body then is bold and disgusting. His gaze settles on my breasts, and big girl takes on a totally different meaning. The corner of his mouth lifts in a slight sneer. I feel like I could shower for days and never get clean.
“Can I go now?” I ask, keeping my voice as even as possible. “I have to figure out a dress if I’m going to the party tomorrow night.”
“Of course,” my father says, waving me off.
“Oh, and Clara.” Byron fingers a pen in a way that somehow looks menacing. “Be sure to look your best. There are some friends of mine I’m having you meet.”
* * *
I wasn’t exaggerating about the dress. Having spent most of my life cooped up in my bedroom or the library, I don’t have the kind of fancy dresses everyone will be wearing tonight.
“You can wear one of mine,” Honor says when I tell her the good news. Well, somewhat good news. The prospect of going to the party seemed less exciting after that creepy look from Byron. And his mention of friends. I have no desire to meet anyone he’d call a friend.
Still, I can’t deny that I’m excited. My first party.
“There’s no way that’s going to work,” I tell her honestly.
Honor is slender. And I’m…not. I’m five years younger than Honor, but somehow my bust is actually bigger. So are my hips.
She rolls her eyes and still manages to look classy and mature while she does it. “We’ll make a few alterations if we have to.”
“I
f we have to? Oh, we’ll have to. And by alterations, I’m guessing you mean adding an entire extra dress. Like if we tie two together, there might be enough fabric.”
Her lips twist disapprovingly. “We aren’t that different, Clara.”
Yeah, right. We’re different in every way. Her black hair to my pale. Her smooth olive skin to my pink freckled skin. Her slim body to my full one. “Have you looked in a mirror lately? You’re beautiful.”
“What are you talking about? Clara, you’re gorgeous. There are women who’d love to have your curves. And your pretty hair.”
I just stare at her. I don’t believe her at all.
She sighs. She must know I’m a lost cause. “You have no idea how adorable your freckles are, do you?”
“Just what every girl wants to be. Adorable. You look like Audrey Hepburn come to life.”
That makes her laugh. “Wouldn’t that be nice. I could go off on a holiday in Rome.”
“You’d have to escape first,” I remind her. That’s how the movie goes. We’ve both watched it a hundred times. There’s only so many things you can do while stuck in a mansion. Read a book. Practice yoga with a DVD instructor.
“Well,” she says lightly. “That can be for later. For now, we need to get you dressed. And I have an idea.”
She digs through her closet and comes up with a black wrap dress. The fabric has enough give that I can fit into it. It expands to accommodate my hips, falling above my knees instead of below, looking flirty instead of vintage. It’s cute.
I stare at myself in the mirror. Really cute.
Except…
“That’s not going to cut it,” Honor says, staring at my cleavage. It’s hard not to stare. My cleavage is practically busting out of this dress, straining at the top.
So much for looking my best. “I’m hopeless.”
She shakes her head. “Nothing a little double-sided tape can’t solve. We’ll add a shawl that covers up the rest.”
She disappears to find this magical tape and shawl that’s going to fix me. With her gone, I suck in my stomach and lift my body, in what I guess is a seductive pose. The truth is I have no idea what seduction would be like. My mind flashes to Giovanni’s hand stroking my hair, my neck. His thumb brushing my lips. And then slipping between them, resting on my tongue.