Monster in His Eyes(59)

His words send a chill down my spine. I don't want to think that, don't  want to believe it. It's so at odds with the woman who raised me to be  kind, and loving, and compassionate.

"So yeah," he says, "you can cook if you want, but if it's Ramen noodles, I can't promise I'll eat it."                       
       
           



       

He offers me a playful smile before walking out. If I hadn't been confused before, I sure am now.

I don't make Ramen. Instead, I make spaghetti and meatballs. It's nothing fancy, not even homemade, everything prepackaged.

Okay, I'm not that good of a cook.

I make up two plates when it's finished, carefully looking around to  make sure I won't be caught, before I pull the small vial of white  powder from my purse that Paul gave me. I sprinkle it over one of the  plates and dispose of the evidence before mixing it in with the sauce.  It dissolves easily.

It's invisible, tasteless, and undetectable until it's too late.

I know that from experience.

Taking the plates to the table, I set the tainted one down in front of my seat.

I know Naz. I've figured out his quirks. He pours his own drinks and he  rarely trusts food. It's a gamble, trying to predict what he'll do,  because if I'm wrong, I'm completely screwed.

Naz joins me at the table, taking his seat, as I take a small bite of  the contaminated spaghetti, not enough to knock me out. He watches me  before glancing down at his own plate warily. He doesn't say it, but I  know what he's thinking.

It might be poisoned.

His eyes meet mine again, suspicious, and I know I got him. He reaches  across the table and grabs my plate, switching ours, just in case. He  saw me take a bite of that one, so he knows it's safe.

As usual, he offers no apologies. I don't expect one.

Weeks ago, I would've laughed at it, thinking it was a joke, that he was  paranoid, but I understand now. I'm the daughter of the man who  murdered his family, the daughter of the man who nearly killed him. He  may love me, but I don't think he could ever truly trust me one hundred  percent.

Can't say I blame him.

I don't deserve it.

Each bite he takes proves it more and more. It's not enough to harm him. Just enough to make him sleep so I can leave.

We drink wine at my suggestion. I need the liquid courage, and I hope  intoxication will mask the onset of the drug in his system. I make sure  he has his fair share. I need to be coherent enough to walk away.

He's feeling it, whether he realizes it or not.

The man who smiles at me across the table, who speaks playfully, who  calls me his little jailbird, reminds me startlingly of the man I fell  in love with. Like when we strip away all pretenses, and block all the  pain, and anger, he's who exists deep inside.

The monster just overshadows him.

When he's finished, I take our plates to the kitchen. Guilt is nagging  at my chest. It's already after ten o'clock. Time is ticking away too  fast.

I'm not ready.

I'm not ready.

I'm not ready.

I wipe my sweaty palms and absently fix my dress. I wore one of Naz's  favorites-the red dress from Vegas. I fill up the sink with soap and  water to do dishes to pass the time when Naz enters the kitchen.

He walks up behind me, stopping flush against me, his hand settling on  my hip as he pulls me back toward him. It's the most he's touched me in a  while, since the day I safe worded him right here where I stand. His  other hand sweeps my hair out of the way, and I shiver when I feel his  breath on my neck. He kisses the skin as his hand on my hip drifts  forward, beneath the dress, slipping inside my panties.

I can't help myself.

I whimper at his touch.

I nearly lose it at the first graze of his fingertips. So gentle, so  natural, his caress so attentive. It's like none of the past two weeks  has happened, and he's forgotten I ever hated him.

Closing my eyes, I try to forget, too.

I feel the onset of an orgasm, my knees going weak, my breathing labored  as I grip the edge of the sink. He rubs, and rubs, and rubs some more,  fumbling with his belt behind me, unbuckling his pants. The voice in my  head is telling me to stop this, to stop him, but I can't.

I won't.

Maybe I need this just as much as him.

Maybe I need it more.

Maybe, the other half of me screams, I just need him.

He shoves my dress up, pushing my panties aside. As soon as the orgasm  rocks me, pleasure bursting beneath my skin, he bends me over just  enough to push into me from behind.

I cry out as he fills me.

It's been so long.

Too long.

He's not brutal, he isn't playing a game, but there's urgency to his  thrusts as he pounds into me from behind. An arm encircles my waist, the  other hand finding home at the base of my throat, the same way he held  me in the street in New Jersey. The hold says 'you're mine; you belong  to me; you always will.' It says I can try to forget, but my body will  forever remember this touch.

It hurts.

It hurts.

Oh God, it fucking hurts.

Not physically. The wound is deeper, an emotional scar I think won't  ever heal, no matter how much time I give it. He touches my body but he  tears at my soul, ripping pieces out of me that are now his and his  alone.

He doesn't take long before I feel his muscles tense. The last few  thrusts are deep, agonizing, as he groans into my hair and lets loose  inside of me. When he finally stills his movements, his body sags  against mine, heavy and satiated, his breathing labored.                       
       
           



       

I'm quivering, my body trembling from head to toe. Tears sting my eyes  when he pulls out. I hope he thinks it's from pleasure, and not because  I'm trying desperately not to cry in front of him.

"Are you okay?" he asks, fixing his pants as I lay against the counter  by the sink, shielding my face. Confident Naz sounds almost unsure these  days.

I don't look back at him as I nod. I'm okay, or I will be, I think. He  leans over me, kissing my neck once more as he tugs my dress back down,  before he steps back.

The tears fall as soon as he leaves the kitchen. It takes me a good  twenty minutes to pull myself together. I wipe my eyes and fix my  clothes, careful as I head toward the den. He's sitting at his desk, his  head down on top of his book.

He's still reading The Prince.

Slowly, I step toward him. He's fast asleep already. I stare down at  him, my fingertips grazing his jawline, feeling the scruff, before I run  my fingers through his hair. He doesn't even stir.

I hope he's dreaming, that he's happy, and at peace, if only for the  moment, because when he wakes up, I know there will be hell to pay for  somebody.

"I love you," I whisper, although I know he can't hear me. "I shouldn't …  but goddamn it if I don't love you, anyway."

Pulling the engagement ring off my finger, I set it on the desk beside him before turning around and walking out.





Twelve o'clock on the dot.

I stand at the entrance of the park, near the massive arch, shivering in  the damp night air. I'm kicking myself for not changing clothes, for  not putting on pants. But Naz's scent clings to these, the memory of his  touch infused in the fabric, and I'm not ready to let go of that yet.

My eyes studiously scan the neighborhood, on alert, waiting.

A minute passes.

Then another.

And another.

Ten minutes come and go, then fifteen. I start to panic. What if all  this was for nothing? Nearly twenty minutes pass before a car comes up  the street, creeping to a stop right in front of me. It's a black BMW,  expensive, and new. The passenger window rolls down as my heart races.

I see his face. John Reed. Johnny Rita.

"Get in," he says.

I hesitate, wondering if I've made a mistake, but I can't know that, not  until I hear what they have to say. Sighing, I climb in the car,  refusing to look at him. "You're late."

"Yeah, well, I had to make sure you were alone," he says, pulling away. "Can't trust people these days."

"Tell me about it," I mutter, trying to quell the anger flowing through  me. This man might be my father, but that doesn't make him my family.  He's a stranger, and I don't trust him. "Where's my mother?"

"Waiting," he says. "She was afraid you wouldn't come."

"Because my entire life was a lie? Because I don't trust you?"

He looks at me. "Because she didn't think you'd be able to escape."

He makes it sound like I was a prisoner, like I was held against my  will, like I hadn't welcomed Naz into my world. "You know nothing about  what I have with him. Neither of you do."

"I know more than you do. You're nothing but a means to an end to him,  something for him to play with. He ain't stupid. He's biding his time,  and you make it easier for him. That's all that is."

Anger brews inside of me. I want to demand he stop the car, that he let  me out, that he never look or speak to me again, but where does that  leave me? Cold, and alone, with nowhere to go, and no more answers than I  showed up with. So I just glare at him for a moment before turning  away.