Page 57 of Brutal Prince

“It’ll be fun to catch up with a childhood friend,” he said, taking my hand and leading me to the dining table. Sliding out the chair he beckoned me to sit.

“We were friends?” I asked, disappointed by his terminology. I loved him before I even knew what love really was.

“Thank you for the raspberry licorice logs,” he chuckled stepping away to the kitchen. “I haven’t had them in quite some time. I hope you like mushroom.”

“Yes, thank you.” My entire body was strung up with nerves, wondering what he was going to do to me. At the same time, I had to get the damn confessions out of him. I felt his warm hand on my bare shoulder and I flinched.

“You’re wound up,” he crooned and started massaging my shoulders.

There was no way in hell I was going to relax even with his perfectly manicured fingers working around my collarbone. I had to calm my shit down, or else I might screw this whole thing up. I had one chance. One chance.

“Sorry, I feel like I’m betraying someone by being here.”

“Why would you feel that? We’re not going to do anything…naughty.”

“Oh?” I asked surprised as disappointment invaded my chest cavity. I should be relieved that a psycho murderer had no interest in me sexually, yet he’s a very attractive man who once placed me on a pedestal. The pedestal might be only two inches high, but still for a few moments I felt special. His actions are the same now. He knew exactly what to do to make me feel desired.

“You’re so tense,” digging his fingers in deeper, making me cringe in pain. “I don’t want to hurt those gorgeous shoulders of yours.”

Releasing his grip on my shoulders to retrieve our dinner, I sighed and felt the space between my legs fill up with juice. Damn it. My clit was throbbing, aching for his touch down there.

He placed a white bowl of rice risotto in front of me and took the chair opposite.

“You haven’t changed much,” he announced. “How old were we when we started hanging out?”

I picked up my fork. “I was twelve and you were fourteen,” I spoke like it was yesterday. My feelings were still ripe.

I remembered the first time he kissed me and the first time he took me for a ride on his bike. I also remembered when he wanted to see what I looked like under my panties. His fingers danced all over me that day and I had feelings I’d never experienced before.

“We had a lot of fun together,” he chimed.

I took a sip of wine to help swallow back the venom in my throat working its way to my lips. Before me was the man who murdered my father and stole my innocence, albeit he was a kid himself when he did these things. Even the word ‘abuse’ failed to fit because none of it felt awful. That’s the most confusing part.

“How’s your brother?”

He stalled, almost choking on his wine. “Which one?”

“Your younger brother. I didn’t meet the older one, I don’t think.” I kept sipping on the wine to calm my nerves, even though a warning voice in my head was blaring, ‘Don’t drink or eat a damn thing!’

“He’s good. I don’t have much to do with him these days. He was sent away to live with my aunt and uncle when we were kids.”

My stomach turned when my mind drifted back to then. His brother was the same age as me and Dom treated him appallingly.

The walls started to spin nauseatingly. “I’m sorry,” I said, placing my hand over my mouth to stop the vomit from rising, “I’m not feeling well.”

“Perhaps you should take it easy on the wine,” he suggested, placing his warm hand over mine. I expected his touch to be ice cold considering that he’s missing a heart to pump warm blood around.

“I think I should go,” I slurred forcing my eyes open.

My final thought was that I needed to get my phone to contact help, as I didn’t think I’d make it down the elevator without falling asleep.

TWENTY EIGHT

Gretta

“Oh good, you’re awake,” I heard him before I saw him. My eyes were so gritty and heavy that it took me several seconds to see clearly. “You went a little heavy on the wine.”

I was lying on the couch with a pillow under my head and a blanket covering my body, while he was sitting opposite me with a tumbler of whiskey in his hand.

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