Page 11 of I am Dressed in Sin (Death by Daybreak MC 2)
But that can’t be true, right? This is the guy who looked me right in the eye and told me to kill him without a drop of fear in his voice, a guy who knew he was about to die but was trying to save me the guilt of actually ending his life.
I groan and start to cough, spattering blood across the cream-colored comforter. That cannot be a good sign.
“They pulled all my fingernails off, remember?” Grey continues, lifting his eyes up to look at the ceiling. Frankly, I’ll be lucky to live through the night, so I don’t bother following his gaze. Whatever he’s looking at doesn’t matter, not anymore.
I have no life.
I’ve thrown mine away in exchange for his, in exchange for some teenage boy that I don’t even know, whose brother was in love with my sister.
Fuck.
“I think I might be dying,” I choke out, because when you cough up blood, you’re in trouble. Big trouble.
Grey just shakes his head slowly, curling his bandaged hands up in his lap.
“My father’s doctor personally saw to it that you wouldn’t.” He flicks his pretty gray eyes over to mine, and I wonder what it is that’s going to happen to me now. I might not have had much, but I had something before all this. I had Faith, my dog Feminist … those stupid asshole officers. But if I’d killed Grey, none of that would’ve mattered, would it? My soul would be forfeit. Even if I die now, this is better. “You’re bleeding because he had to pull a cracked tooth. It’s in the back so nobody can see it, but you might want to get a crown later.”
A crown. Crown.
I snort, but the sound just makes my whole everything hurt, and I end up coughing again. More blood on the blanket.
“What happens now?” I ask when I can finally catch my breath, forcing my tired body up to slump into the pillows. It’s a journey, but once I get there, it’s all worth it. My eyes close, and I can feel the fingers of sleep digging into my psyche.
“We either prove to the family that we’re in love …” Grey starts with a long sigh, dragging his bandaged hand over his face. “Or we die. Your choice.”
Six weeks later, and I’m feeling a fuck of a lot better. My skin is still scabbed over in places, and I wake up sore every morning, but each day is better than the last.
“Coffee?” Grey asks, and then he mutters something in Italian that makes me grit my teeth. I’m not sure why, but it just pisses me off when he speaks other languages. Apparently, he knows like six. Also, he’s been to thirty-two different countries, and he’s eighteen fucking years old.
“No. Leave me alone.” I roll over in the bed, the one that we’ve been sharing for a month and a half now. It’s comfortable, I’ll give you that, and the thread count on the sheets is astronomical, but it doesn’t mean we sleep happily or comfortably in here. I’m on guard every second; I wake up at every sound. “Your early bird shit annoys the fuck out of me.”
“Suit yourself.” Grey prepares himself an espresso just as he does every day. The way he stands there and sips it, staring at the stone walls like he can see straight through them and to the world beyond, scares me sometimes.
He looks at those walls like they’re impenetrable—and I don’t just mean physically. He’s as trapped as I was. As I still am. I force myself up, balancing on my elbows as I watch him take his usual seat. See, while Grey’s settled himself into a comfortable routine, I’m starting to go crazy.
I was never meant to be caged. That’s why I ran. Because I couldn’t stand the thought of being trapped by bars of blood and chrome, attached to one of Cat’s leashes for life. So for me to be stuck here, under the thumb of the very mafia who sent assassins to rape and murder my sisters? Doesn’t exactly work for me.
“Is there someplace we could go to, you know …” I pause and think about using a euphemism or maybe some raunchy motion to get my point across, but I’m too damn tired, physically and spiritually. “Fuck. Is there somewhere private we can go to fuck?”
Grey turns very slowly to look at me, the ghost of a smile playing about his lips. He knows I’m screwing with him, that I just want a moment where we could talk in private, scheme or plan or something. He’s in as much trouble—if not more—here than I am.
I’ve considered sleeping with him, I’ll admit. I mean, I’m trapped here, and there isn’t much else to do. We have absolutely zero access to the Internet, a smart TV with a handful of apps, and some books. Our food is brought to us, and we have an attached bathroom to bathe in.
