Page 5 of Reaper’s Wrath

D eases forward until he’s towering over me. From down on my knees, he looks enormous. Not freakishly so like Fedele, but still plenty intimidating. In fact, he reminds me of a thunderous cloud looming in the distance. A captivating electrical storm with devastating power simmering beneath the surface.

Oh God. I’m doing it again.

I don’t understand why this keeps happening. Sometimes I’m fine, and other times, I can hardly breathe around him. Like those multicolored eyes of his—deep green and brown with flecks of honey—reach straight into my chest and constrict tight around my lungs.

“I’m not here for your father.” His darkly murmured words dance across my skin.

I sit back on my heels, hands in my lap as I peer up at him. I’m trying to remain calm, but I’m painfully aware of the fact that I’m kneeling before him.

A fantasy plays out in the back of my mind in a flash. One I won’t give words to.

I don’t understand how I could have gone twenty years knowing the man and only now see him in an entirely new light.

Is it the clothing? Terina’s influence seems to have modified his wardrobe.

I haven’t seen the outfit he’s wearing before. I’d remember if I had. The black peacoat he wears over a dark charcoal turtleneck pulls taut around his muscular biceps. He looks sophisticated and worldly, like an international businessman on the cusp of a hostile takeover.

“Did you need something from me?” I’m ashamed at how sultry the words come out. Breathy and uncertain.

I swear his breathing hitches, and I want to crawl under the nearest rock. Does he know? Can he sense where my thoughts have taken me? I wouldn’t be surprised. I might as well rent a billboard.

“I want you to explain to me why you’re going through with this marriage.” His question is so unexpected that my mind blanks.

“Um … well, for the reasons we’ve talked about.”

I’m not sure why he’s asking me about this. I’ve already gone through my reasoning with him and Terina and my dad—with everyone, for that matter. Talking through it again isn’t going to change the circumstances or the fact that I’m an adult capable of making my own decisions.

And I’m certainly not going to tell him about the role he’s playing. My embarrassing new reactions to him are too shameful to share with anyone. Ever.

“Do me a favor and explain it again,” he demands with no small degree of irritation.

“What is this all about? Is there some sort of problem?”

“Aside from you being unable to answer a simple question?”

“You know my answer. Nothing’s changed, unless there’s something you’re not telling me.” Uncertainty gives my final words a note of hesitancy that hangs in the air.

Silent seconds tick by in our little standoff when his hand starts forward as though he’s going to touch me. My lungs freeze in anticipation before he abruptly withdraws.

Callous indifference turns his gaze glacial.

“I suppose if you’re dead set on marrying Antonelli, it’s a good thing you enjoy time on your knees.”

I’ve never been so insulted—so painfully devastated—over a simple comment by another person. It literally winds me.

When my lungs finally recover, I launch to my feet so quickly I lose my balance and begin to fall backward. DiAngelo’s large hands grab my arms and yank me forward, so much so that my body slams against his.

He doesn’t let me go.

Endless seconds tick by as I inhale a strangely familiar scent that does funny things to my head. It scrambles my fury into a tangled ball of confusion as I peer up at him.

Why would he be so hurtful to me? What’s come over him, and where on earth have I smelled that scent before?

Whatever he sees in my eyes must shock him because he jolts backward as though burned by a live wire.

“Gamó ton Christó.” His hissed words blur together, but I’m pretty sure it’s another language. If it’s Italian, it’s a phrase I’ve never heard, and I’m not sure I’ve ever known D to speak Italian.

The entire exchange baffles me.