Page 11 of Crowned in Sin
"You didn’t agree to a lot of things,piccola. But you don’t have a choice anymore."
There’s a certain truth to that statement. But I don’t tell her the full truth, and the only place in this world I trust her to keep my secret is the one place she can never leave.
The gates swing openwhen my car approaches.
The drive is a quarter mile through old oaks and cobblestone rumbling under the tires. Slowly, the house rises out of the dark, low and imposing. It’s built from gray stone and dark timber. The steep gabled rooflines are stacked one behind the other.
On the west end is a square tower that my father built tall enough to watch the water and the road both at once. Ivies have dug their hooks deep in the north wall. The heavy windows with their bullet-proof glass cast soft yellow diamonds in the dark.
Beyond the east wing, past the hedges clipped into walls, the lawn falls away toward the bluffs and the black sheet of Long Island Sound.
This place was never built to look like a home, but to intimidate everyone who came close.
I watch Lydia's face as we round the fountain at the front of the house. For a single second, the fury drops like a coat sliding from her shoulders.
My housekeeper Giorgia is already waiting at the door. Her robe is cinched tight, and her gray hair is tied in a braid over one shoulder.
She doesn’t react when she sees me opening the door to let Lydia out.
She’s helped run this house since I was a boy, and she has helped bury more of my family's secrets than the bluffs have.
"You're back early." Her eyes flick to Lydia and stop for a moment on the smear of blood on her cheeks. "I'll bring up towels and something hot to your room for your guest."
"No, not my room." I keep my hand at the small of Lydia's back. "She’ll be staying in the guest room across from mine."
Giorgia holds my gaze and slips me a quick questioning look before she nods.
I steer Lydia toward the staircase, and she takes several large steps to put as much distance between me as she can.
As she ascends, the gray sweatpants tighten around her ass and it’s impossible for me to tear my eyes away from the sway of her hips. My mouth goes dry. Three months I've had nothing of her but memory and now she's six inches in front of me climbing my own staircase with a cop's blood still drying on her skin.
My dick has been rock hard since I dragged her into my car.
I swear she’s doing this just to get a rise out of me.
As I follow her up the stairs, I want to shove her against the closest wall, bend her over the nearest surface, and wrap her dark hair around my fist while I make her scream.
When she reaches the top of the landing, she turns around with fury in her eyes. “Which way?”
“Last door on your left.”
She turns and walks down without waiting for me to catch up. When she reaches the door, she tries to push it open only to find that it’s locked.
I walk up to the door, doing my best to ignore the warmth of her body and her scent wafting into my nose. As soon as I unlock the door, she steps past me, turns around, and holds her hand out.
"Key,” she says.
I cock an amused eyebrow at her. “Excuse me?”
“You think I’m just going to let you have the key to my room?” She doesn’t back down. “I’m not an idiot.”
I step past the door and she takes an instinctive step back. "You don’t get to hide from me,piccola.Not in my house. Not after what happened. Not until I get the answers I’m looking for."
Then, as if to make my point clear, I close the door behind me.
Her chest rises and falls quickly as she keeps backing up. One step, two steps, until her back finally hits the wall. The distance dissolves between us, and nothing can hide the flush of pink rising up on her face. Her light scent tastes overwhelming in the proximity, and I can feel it burying deep inside of my lungs where I’ll never dig her out.
Not that I ever want to.
