I hated myself.
No, I hated him. I needed to remember that.
Why was it so hard to remember that?
I got out of bed and went into the bathroom. He must have showered recently. Steam still fogged up the corners of the mirror, and the scent of his aftershave hung in the air.
I found I liked it, felt somehow comforted by it.
The devil you know. That’s all that was. I knew Salvatore. I knew his limits.
Fuck. I was fooling myself.
I used the bathroom, not surprised to find blood between my legs even though I wasn’t having my period. He’d fucked me raw, like he said he would.
And you’d come.
I turned my back to the mirror, the dark, crisscrossed welts reminding me to hate him. To see him for what he was: a Benedetti. My enemy.
I touched the raised marks, pressed against them, forced myself to remember that he was my fucking enemy. I could not let myself trust him, let myself depend on him. He would hurt me. Wasn’t this evidence of that?
This strange emotion—no, it was not emotion. Only confusion. I felt confused, but who wouldn’t be if they were me? Isolated from family and under the care—more like under the thumb—of Salvatore Benedetti, I needed him for everything. Every fucking thing. And that was why I had any feeling for him whatsoever. Maybe it was a form of Stockholm Syndrome. I mean, this may not be a traditional kidnapping, but it wasn’t like I was here by choice. Not my choice, anyway.
I turned on the shower and stepped under the hot stream. I wanted to scrub his touch from me. Wanted to scrub the memory of my reaction to him from my mind.
He’d fucking whipped me, and I’d begged him to fuck me.
I scrubbed my hair with shampoo and my body with soap, gritting my teeth when the hot water hit my ass. When I was finished, I climbed out and dried off. I wanted to be out of here. I’d only been told I had to stay the night. Not any longer. But what if his father made me stay? What if Salvatore had already gone? And left me behind.
Panicked, I hurried into the bedroom, found my cell phone in my purse, and dialed Isabella’s number.
“Hello?”
“Izzy?” I was sure I’d woken her. “I’m calling too early. I’m sorry.”
“No, no, it’s okay. How are you?”
“I don’t know. I’m in Franco Benedetti’s house in the Adirondacks.”
“What?”
Well, that woke her up. “I had to come. It was his birthday. We were required. I just…”
“Are you okay, Luce?”
I only heard concern in her voice now. I felt my eyes heat up, but I blinked hard. I didn’t need tears. I hated weakness. Hated it! “I—”
The door opened then, and Salvatore walked inside carrying two mugs of coffee. I sighed in relief.
“Lucia, what’s happened?” Isabella asked, likely having heard the sigh.
Salvatore looked at me quizzically and closed the door. He wore a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, his usual uniform, and he’d slicked back his dark hair. He mouthed the word, Okay?
I turned away.
“Never mind, I’m fine,” I said to Izzy. “I thought he’d left me here,” I whispered, hoping Salvatore wouldn’t hear.
I heard a male voice asking what was going on in the background.
“Who is that?” I asked.
Isabella sighed. “No one. I’m getting up to come get you now.”
“No, it’s okay,” I said, turning to find Salvatore sipping his coffee, watching me. “He’s not going to leave me here,” I said, the comment more a question to Salvatore.
He shook his head.
“I’ll call you once we’re home. Uh, I mean, back at his house.” Fuck. What the hell was wrong with me? “I have to go.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah. Sorry to have called so early, sis.”
“You’re fine. You can call me anytime, day or night, understand?”
I nodded. “Thanks. Love you.” I hadn’t said that in more than five years.
There was a pause. “Love you.”
I disconnected the call and slid the phone into my purse. “I thought you’d left me here.”
“I wouldn’t do that to you. Come here.”
I went to him.
“You okay?”
I shrugged a shoulder, dropping my gaze to shield my eyes. Why did his asking make me feel so fucking needy? Why did him taking me into his arms make me want to sob? Because that’s what it did. That’s what having his arms around me right now, like he would keep me safe forever, even after last night, that’s what they did. They made me want to weep.
The last time he’d held me like this, I’d pulled away. This time, I didn’t. I let myself melt into him. Neither of us spoke. I squeezed my eyes shut against his chest, feeling confused and hurt and vulnerable and so fucking grateful he was here. None of it made sense.