Leave Me (Touch of Death Book 2)

by LP Lovell

  “Neither did I.”

  She inhales a deep breath and finally gifts me with that tranquil, blue gaze. “You left.” I know she’s talking about the night I came for Gabriella.

  “Because I was done trying to convince you not to do this.”

  She reaches up, brushing her fingertips over my jaw. “And now?”

  “And now, I’m asking you one last time. I will not ask again. Please do not do this.” My heart thumps awkwardly in my chest because it knows it will be the one to suffer if she denies me again.

  Her eyes close, and I see the pain etched into every feature. Her fingers slide up my face until her palm presses flush to my cheek. With a tug, I go to her, dipping my head. Those lips meet mine, soft and warm, like a home I never even knew I needed until her. Her lips part, and she invites me in, promises to keep me safe in this haven that I shouldn’t need or want but do. Warmth careens through my veins, dragging me under into an abyss where nothing outside of this moment exists. It’s just her and me and the entity that is us, existing against all odds. My fingers seek out her waist, and I pull her close, craving the feel of her.

  Her fingers creep beneath the edge of my shirt and press to my bare skin. Instinctively, I freeze, waiting for the urge to hurt her to rise. It never comes; instead, heat tears over me, seizing the breath in my lungs. Her touch trails higher, over my stomach and chest. A foreign sensation washes over me like a fog, blanking out everything else. Her touch, her kiss, the closeness of her body—it drives this strange feeling until I’m about to tear out of my own skin.

  Then finally, I explode, and whatever leash I’ve kept on myself my entire life breaks.

  Everything sane and rational ceases to exist, and nothing matters but Adelina. A feral kind of madness sweeps over me, and I grab her waist, lifting her before I toss her onto the dressing table. She clings to me, her legs parting beneath the layers of silk and lace. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t even know what this is.

  She tears her lips from mine, and rapid breaths blow over my face. Her forehead presses to mine, and I glance down, watching as she slowly eases up the virginal, white material of her dress. My hands land on her bare thighs without permission, and I tremble as I trace her tanned skin.

  She yanks open the button of my pants before lowering the zipper. The air crackles between us, and all the pent-up tension from the last few weeks seems to dissipate in an instant. The moment her hand slips inside my boxers, I forget…everything. She grasps my length, and I choke on a breath.

  “Adelina,” I growl.

  A small smile touches her lips, and she pulls me closer, brushing her lips over mine. “Make me yours, Sasha,” she almost pleads.

  In an instant, I grip her hips and slide inside her, and my whole world changes. I’ve never been inside a woman before, but I could happily die right now. She’s perfect, so perfect. Her head falls back, and those full lips part like art. With each thrust, I want to crawl inside her and possess every single cell in her body. My fingers dig into her skin, and though I try to be careful, I can’t control myself. Each thrust gets harder and harder until a string of moans falls from her lips like music to my ears. She completely breaks, exposing the most vulnerable parts of herself to me. I fuck her brutally, unable to stop, the need to stake my claim driving my subconscious. And then something starts to creep up on me—a tingling that soon turns into an all-out explosion. A groan works up my throat as I feel myself empty deep inside her. My world shrinks to a single sensation, one long moment that I wish I could remain in forever. I bury my face in her throat, muffling the feral sounds that pour from me. She tightens her hold on me as though she would never let go. And then, it all just stops. We remain where we are, our rapid breaths intermingling.

  “I…” I don’t know what to say, and in the aftermath of our blind lack of control, reality crashes over me. I pull away from her, staggering on wobbly legs. My entire body trembles as I fasten my pants and pull myself together.

  Adelina’s cheeks tinge pink, and she drops her gaze to the floor before adjusting her dress back into place. That was foolish on my part. I thought I was done being weak for her, but truthfully, she’ll always be my vulnerability. She reaches parts of me that never even existed before her.

  “Malyshka, come with me,” I beg, hoping that this time, now, this will be enough. I will be enough. I’ve given every scrap of myself to her, and I don’t even have my dignity anymore. She can keep it if I can just have her.

  Her expression changes, and I watch as a single tear escapes the corner of her eye, tracking over her makeup-clad cheek. She closes the short distance between us and clasps my face in both her hands. “I wish I could,” she whispers. Her forehead touches mine, and I close my eyes, inhaling the scent of the unfamiliar perfume she now wears. “This will soon be over, and we’ll be together.”

  But we won’t. An ache forms in my chest, and I hate it. I hate that after everything, we’re still right back here. Nothing has changed. Just as the rational part of mind knew it wouldn’t.

  She’s determined to walk this path no matter what. I can’t stop or change it, only watch helplessly. I shouldn’t have come here. I shouldn’t have been so weak for her.

  On a nod, I take a step back, and her hands fall away from my face. I take one last look at her, and then I take everything I feel for her and extinguish it. Adelina will be lost to the history of my mind. Whether she senses the change, I don’t know, but she steps forward, seeking me out.

  “Sasha, I…” She stumbles over her words, her mouth agape. “I love you.”

  I know those words are supposed to mean something. But even I, an emotionless soldier, know her words are empty in the face of her actions.

  Without responding, I turn and walk toward the window. The single-pane sash jolts up, the glass shuddering under the force. I wind my body through the gap and drop to the freshly cut grass on the other side. A few wedding guests are moving toward the front of the church, but the giant oak tree in the graveyard casts enough shadow for me to go relatively unnoticed. I don’t look back, just keep walking, and walking…until I reach my car.

  And then I drive. All the way to the airport.

  14

  Adelina

  He never looks back, just strides away, the powerful muscles of his frame flexing beneath the black material of his shirt.

  My stomach sinks to the floor, right along with my heart. I told him I loved him, and all I got was the blank stare of the soldier I first met. I don’t know what I expected. There’s really only so many times I could say no to him before he left for good. So why does it hurt so much?

  I swipe at the tears that track down my cheeks and swallow down the thick lump in my throat. A knock on the door tears my gaze from the window. The handle jiggles, but of course, I locked the door already.

  “Hold on. I…I just need a minute,” I shout.

  My gaze frantically darts around the room, looking for something, anything… a used makeup wipe sits in the corner of the dressing table. I use it to clean myself up, though the idea of marrying Enrique with Sasha’s come on my thighs makes me smile through my tears. I’ll never be his, not even on our wedding day. With a glance in the mirror and a couple of adjustments, I’m ready. When I open the door, my young bodyguard stands there. His eyes sweep over me briefly before hitting the floor the same way they usually do.

  “You look beautiful,” he murmurs, surprising me.

  “Thank you.”

  I walk straight past him and along a corridor that brings me to the entrance hall of the church. The second the music starts, I get nervous, and as I wait alone, it suddenly strikes me—it’s my wedding day. And I’m about to walk down the aisle alone. Without my father. Tears prickle my eyes again, and I fight them back. The last thing I need is to be the weeping bride in front of all those people in there. My father would never have approved of this, and if he were still here, well then, none of this would be happening. Enrique’s head would probably alr
eady be on a platter, and life would be simpler, kinder. But that isn’t the case. This is. I’m going to walk down this aisle alone and marry the monster because in this story, there is no prince, and I already turned down the white knight. In this story, the princess must slay the dragon.

  A woman I’ve never met squeezes through a tiny gap in the double doors. She has on a headset and a sky-blue dress with a matching hat.

  She hands me a bouquet of blood-red roses sprinkled with gypsophila.

  “Ready?” she asks.

  I nod, and she throws open the doors.

  Everyone—and I do mean everyone—turns in their seats almost as one to look at me. The church appears packed from wall to wall, a grand audience for this sham of a ceremony. My stomach knots and my knees wobble when I take my first step. I’ve never felt quite so alone as I do on the short walk down the aisle. I don’t look for Enrique, only at the floor in front of me. The uneven and worn stone looks like a death trap in these heels. When I do finally reach the front, I brace myself, sucking in a shaky breath before I slowly turn and face Enrique. He takes my hand, and his touch feels alien and uncomfortable.

  As soon as the priest starts talking, I feel distanced from the entire thing. I hear the words, sing the hymns, but it’s like I’ve drifted from my body and I’m watching from someone else’s perspective. My lips speak the vows, repeating them robotically. I look at Enrique, but I don’t really see him; it’s more like I’m looking through him. He’s handsome in a three-piece tail suit, but all I see is an ugly man hungry for power.

  When the priest escorts us to the back of the church, he presents me with the marriage certificate. Enrique signs, scribbles his name, marring the crisp, white paper, and then hands me the pen. My hand trembles as I stare at our two names side by side. This is it. I’m legally binding myself to Enrique Bianchi and entitling him to everything I now or will ever have. I press the pen to paper and scrawl my signature. Adelina Ricci. There, in black and white. Willingly written. Anything that happens now is of my own doing. And he undoubtedly knows it.

  The rest of the ceremony is a blur of pompous bullshit. We speak words before God that neither of us mean. Vowing to love each other in sickness and in health. It’s laughable. Before I know it, the words “I do” are slipping from my mouth.

  “You may kiss the bride,” the priest says, a beaming smile on his aged face.

  I wonder if he knows what he’s condemning me to.

  Enrique steps forward and slides his fingers over my cheek, almost lovingly. Then his lips meet mine, soft, yet persistent. Tension crackles through my body, building until I feel like I’m going to explode, but I have to remind myself—I chose this. Time and time again. The kiss only lasts a moment, and then he’s gone, turning me toward the gathered crowd. The people are all a blur, except one.

  Gabriella sits in the front pew of the church to the right, just her and Lorenzo. Of course, it’s reserved for family, and aside from her, I have none. The bruises on her face have healed, but I can see the pain in her eyes, laced with an anger I understand better than anyone. I tear my gaze from her and walk down the aisle toward the doors.

  Once outside the church, confetti rains down on us in a shower of color. People smile and congratulate us, and I’m just numb to it all. Photographers snap pictures, and I find myself wondering why. Enrique isn’t exactly going to look at them at a later date and recall how happy we were. Perhaps he just wants to reminisce over my misery.

  I finally see a face I recognize in the form of Una. I can’t really miss her. She parts the crowd in a bright-red dress that clings to her curves, matching the fascinator that sits among the white-blond waves that fall to her waist. Everyone seems to move away from her as she cuts through the guests with that graceful swing of her hips. Some of them will know exactly who she is, and those that don’t can sense the dangerous vibe she emits, much like a gazelle senses the presence of a lion. Nero breaks away from a group of men and comes to her side. Her arm links through his, and they become two predators in a field of prey; beautiful but deadly. They walk straight toward Enrique and me. It feels as though the entire congregation of gathered guests holds their breath, though I know it’s probably just me.

  “Adelina,” Una purrs. “Congratulations.” She smiles, though her eyes promise retribution. She never liked me, and I imagine even less so now.

  I watch as Nero shakes Enrique’s hand, the promise of death in his eyes. The two men stare at each other, and I’m surprised Nero came given the fact that Enrique all but declared war on him.

  “Thank you for coming,” Enrique says.

  Una presses to Nero’s side, and he smirks. “Oh, we wouldn’t miss it,” she says before glancing at me once more. “We didn’t get you a wedding gift.” She holds out her arm before unfastening the thick, silver cuff that encases her wrist. “I want you to have this.” I’ve never seen her not wearing the piece of jewelry, and I assume it has sentimental value.

  “Oh, no. I couldn’t…”

  Before I can object, she snaps it on my arm. I glance down at the thick cuff. It’s not really my style, but it’s touching that she gave me anything. “Nonsense. It looks stunning on you.”

  She moves away, and Nero replaces her. “I hope your marriage is everything you hope for,” he says, eyes locking with mine.

  I don’t miss the double meaning. While Sasha was telling me I couldn’t do this, I could always sense Nero considering the merits of my going after Enrique. He’s a strategist, always looking for a plan that benefits him while requiring minimal risk. I gave him that. If I fail in killing Enrique, then he’ll undoubtedly find another way. If I die in the process, well, that’s not his problem. The only people Nero truly cares for are his men and his family. I can almost respect that kind of unscrupulous planning. It’s something my father would do—prioritize his family and allow someone else to take the risk.

  He leans in, kissing my cheek. “Use the gift wisely,” he says.

  He steps back, and I frown as I watch them both move off, the crowd scrambling to get out of their way once more. Use the gift wisely. I glance down at the bracelet. How am I supposed to use this? Enrique turns away, speaking to someone else. I turn the cuff around on my wrist, running my fingers along the polished edge. There’s a tiny ridge, and when I press my finger to it, part of it pops out on a spring release. I allow it to drop away from the main body of the metal by half an inch and wince when it slices through my finger. It’s a blade. Tiny but razor-sharp. I push it back inside before my eyes dart over the crowd. I spot Una near the gates that exit the churchyard. Our eyes lock, and she gives me a small nod.

  She threw me a lifeline, and gratitude for the cold Russian swells in my chest. They’re rooting for me. Their motivations may be selfish, but they are invested in my success. I suddenly don’t feel so alone.

  Now I simply have to smile and nod, get through this farce of a party, and then Enrique Bianchi is going to find out exactly what he bought with my father’s blood. This Ricci bride is more than he bargained for.

  The party is at the house with a huge marquee erected in the garden. No expense has been spared. Of course, for Enrique, it’s a show of power and wealth. I watch as he drinks champagne and then whiskey. One glass then another and another. It’s a good thing because it’ll make him more vulnerable when he finally falls asleep. However, as the night rolls on, I grow more anxious. Enrique is not a nice man, but I’ve witnessed firsthand how cruel he is when drunk. It’s a double-edged sword.

  And then comes the moment when he stumbles over to me. I tense as his hand glides over my waist, and his lips sloppily hit my neck. A few of his men cheer and wolf whistle.

  “Come on.” He takes my hand and drags me from the marquee.

  I block out the lude sounds from the crowd. As he pulls me through the house and up the stairs, my pulse rises. I’ve planned for this, and yet, now that I’m here, I feel sick. I want to turn and run, but I can’t. I’ve come too far.

&nbs
p; He leads me into a bedroom and closes the door before he walks away, sliding his jacket over his shoulders. Black sheets cover a king-sized bed that sits in the middle of the huge room, taunting me. It might as well be a torture device because that bed terrifies me. I remain where I am, my back pressed to the door. My hands tremble, and I snap my fingers around my wrist in an attempt to still them.

  He takes off his waistcoat. Cufflinks, tie, shoes—all removed so casually before he finally turns to face me.

  “Is my wife going to come willingly?” he asks, though a smirk plays over his lips, and I have a feeling he’d prefer that I wasn’t willing.

  This is it—the final scene in this act. My ultimate sacrifice before the thrilling encore. This is the culmination of everything, right here. So close. I just have to take this final step and fuck Enrique Bianchi. On a shaky breath, I step forward. My legs feel like jelly, and my ankles threaten to give way on the high heels, so I kick them off. When I’m only a few feet in front of him, he moves, and one step is all it takes for me to know how this is going to go. His body bristles with aggression, and it’s aimed at me. His hands span my waist, and he launches me onto the bed. I barely have a chance to gather myself before he grips my hips and flips me onto my front. My heart is galloping in my chest and fear embeds into every fiber of my being. I thought I could do this, but now that it’s happening, I’m paralyzed. Material shreds as he wrenches the intricate lace at my back apart. He makes no attempt to strip me, simply shoves aside the layers of skirts and tears off my underwear. No, no, no. I can’t think. Survival instincts trickle back in, and I try to get away, pushing up. I turn, attempting to elbow him.