Page 76 of Ruthless King
But another expression creeps into my skull, supplanting it. A beautiful woman with haunting dark eyes who, in every sense of the word, is a stranger. A woman with a face so enchanting that I hate myself for the thoughts that crept into my skull as I saw her. That body. That supple mouth.
In some ways, Safiya’s supposed future self is a fitting punishment. I threw her away, but she survived, finding a man who could protect her better than I ever could. A man who could give her a world she would never have access to as a Vanici.
A man who protected her. Cherished her.
Killed for her.
It should be Mischa’s blood speckling my chin right now, not Antonio Salvatore’s. Mischa, whose demise dominates my fantasies. Mischa, with his perfect, cherished family hidden safely behind their high walls.
I could show him how easily such a fortress can be breached. How it would only take a few bullets to shatter his carefully cultivated paradise.
And how that pain could drive any man insane.
The loss of sanity is something you don’t realize at first. Not until the day you’re guzzling whiskey just to keep your thoughts clear.
But what’s the point?
I could hurt Mischa. Hate him.
But my head is spinning, throbbing badly enough to outweigh the rage. To rectify it, I grab the clear bottle resting at my feet and drain it. Then I stand and leave this room, trudging back down the hall without any clear destination in mind.
I’m outside again, observing the house in the moonlight. I used to dream of torching it. Setting the entire damn thing ablaze and watching it burn.
But Vincenzo loved it. I kept it, hoping to give it to him one day when he could do as he wished with it. Maybe raise a family here. Salvage the darkness that tainted our once beloved home.
But now?
Those dreams die with him, and there’s nothing left to hope for. This goddamn house should go the same way.
I march to the garage and grab the red bottle of old lighter fluid along with an old book of matches. At the back of my mind, I doubt I even have the balls to go through with it. Still, I carry it back into the house, moving blindly from room to room. Eventually, numbness sets in, turning my limbs to lead. I find myself slumping into a chair, my gaze unfocused.
I’m in the study of all places, sitting in the same chair I left the little imposter Safiya in. If I breathe in deeply enough, I can still smell her. Fresh. Like a field of fucking roses.
It’s so real.
And then I see her, pale and slim, she hovers near the doorway. A plain dress makes her the most innocent apparition. A hauntingly beautiful one as well. I snarl at her. Then I sigh.
“I knew you’d come,” I tell her, pointing the tip of the bottle at her face. It’s a cruel twist of irony that she’s beautiful.
She blinks, shock painting her delicate cheeks pink.
I stand, approaching her unsteadily. My hand finds that cheek, cradling it against my palm. Her lips part beneath the pressure of my thumb, and I can’t silence a groan. So pink. So pretty.
She could be real…
“Come to laugh at me from hell, Safiya?” I ask her, brushing my lips along her jaw. My brain is a cruel fuck. I can smell her more clearly, how I think she’d smell anyway. Fresh. Sweet. Her warmth is an echo biting through my numb fingers.
It’s the goddamn alcohol that does this to me. Makes me imagine her so damn clearly. Makes me notice things a man like me never should about a woman so young. My Safy…
I cup her chin with one hand and rake the other through her hair—though it’s not like she could run away. She’s paralyzed, this apparition. Her eyes meet mine, so wide. So goddamn bright.
Another groan rips from me as I press my forehead to hers, sensing the small body trembling against mine. She’s afraid of me, this phantom Safiya.
And she should be.
I fist my fingers brutally through the thick strands, drawing her closer. I can hear the air entering her nostrils and leaving her chest in little pants, but even in my head, she doesn’t scream.
Good.
