Page 24 of Leave Me (Touch of Death 2)
“Are you hiding?” Enrique whispers against my ear.
I force a smile and turn to face him. He’s close. Too close. The scent of his cologne engulfs me, woodsy and masculine, but all it does is make me miss the clean smell of citrus and mint. Sasha. They’re light and dark. Sasha is by far the more deadly of the two, and yet, his heart is pure in a way Enrique could never even comprehend.
“I wanted to talk to Gabriella,” I finally respond.
“I’m sure.” His eyes pinch in the corners ever so slightly, though his lips remain set in a practiced smile.
We stare at one another, lies and deception tainting the air between us. We dance along a perilous line, both knowing the other is our enemy, forced to pretend otherwise. And where do the truth and the lie become one? I almost need to believe it myself. Anything less and this entire plan is doomed to fail. Enrique Bianchi is no idiot.
“And yet, here you are talking to Matteo Santori.” He spits the name as though it offends him.
“Matteo was just reminding me of the time I got drunk at my sisters twenty-first birthday. It was embarrassing,” I say, trying to lighten the tone and cut through the tension that seems to be ratcheting with each passing second.
I flash Matteo a polite smile. Acting and lies. Always. He smiles back, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. Enrique’s fingers tighten on my waist possessively, and I want to roll my eyes.
“Perhaps you should have learned the first time. You shouldn’t get drunk in public,” Enrique murmurs low in my ear.
“It’s a party.”
He lifts a brow. “Don’t get drunk.”
I bristle, my spine stiffening. The ice sculpture sits on the bar just behind him, and I eye the small ice pick that sits next to it. I imagine picking up the sharp tool and ramming it into Enrique’s throat, watching the crimson blood spill over that tuxedo.
“I have a headache,” I lie. “I need to lay down. Lovely to see you again, Matteo.” He offers me a jolty nod, and I move past them both before I do something rash and ruin whatever tenuous sliver of trust may exist between Enrique and I.
I feel the eyes on me as I hurry through the crowd. The runaway fiancé. I move through the house, walking along corridors that all look the same. When I finally fall into my room, I slam the door behind me and suck in a deep breath. My head swims a little from the tequila, and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to calm everything.
I glance down at the ring on my finger, and my hand starts trembling. I slip the offensive diamond off and allow it to fall to the thick carpet with a thump.
I’m engaged to Enrique Bianchi. I’m his now. His prisoner, his slave. I’m playing a game I don’t understand, that I wasn’t trained for. Gabriella was. I’m running on the simple drive for revenge and blind hope.
What the hell am I doing?
My sleep is fitful, plagued with bad dreams. The humid night air clings to my skin, suffocating me as I toss and turn.
When I do manage to sleep, it’s not for long. On an exasperated breath, I toss the sheets back and sit up. I scoop the damp strands of my hair away from my neck, feeling the cooler air touch my clammy skin. Something moves near the window, and I still. At first, I think it’s just the curtain catching on the breeze that drifts through the ajar balcony door. But then I realize, I didn’t leave the door open. My pulse ticks up as my eyes adjust, and I pick out the outline of the shadowy figure standing in the open gap.
“Sasha?” I whisper, hope caressing me with gentle fingers.
There’s a loud click that splits the tentative silence in the room. With it comes a tiny burst of light in the form of a dancing flame. The amber glow passes over the tanned skin and jet-black hair of none other than Enrique. Fear skates the length of my spine, and a sense of unease settles over me. He pauses with the lighter to his face for a moment before it snaps shut with finality. The cherry-red glow of his cigarette replaces it.
He inhales deeply, sending a demonic tinge over his features. “No.” He says nothing more for long moments, and with each passing second of silence, my heart seems to beat harder. Smoke drifts around him before crawling out the window and catching in the moonlight. “I’m not your Russian. Do you dream of him, principessa? Do you think he’ll save you from me?”
My mind gallops through all the things I could and should say. “I must have been.”
A small laugh slips from his throat before he places the cigarette to his lips once more. “You were…attached to him.”
