Chiara’s mouth twisted. Not being able to warm up to him wasn’t the problem at all. She was plenty warm when it came to Scythe. Her skin flushed even now, at the very thought of the hulking, dangerous male.
“If anyone knows anything about Scythe, it’ll be Trygg,” Bella added. “The rest of us can only wonder what it must’ve been like to be born and raised as one of Dragos’s Hunters. As for what happened to the ones fortunate enough to escape after the Order released them from their enslavement, that’s anyone’s guess. Can you imagine how hard it must have been for all of those lost boys and men, suddenly set loose to make their way in the world after years or decades spent killing at their Master’s command?”
No, Chiara could not imagine. She could hardly bear to consider what Scythe and Trygg and the likely scores of other freed Hunters must have endured—both in and out of Dragos’s horrific program.
“Maybe you should ask him.”
“W-what?”
“Talk to Scythe,” Bella said, as if it were a perfectly reasonable suggestion. “Ask him yourself about his hand.”
Chiara shook her head. “I can’t do that.”
“Of course, you can. You sit him down and have a real conversation with the male. It would probably do him good to talk to someone. And you, too, sorella. What else can the two of you do to occupy your time, sequestered out there by yourselves?”
She nearly choked. A host of indecent possibilities danced through her mind. Thankfully, she was on the phone with Bella, rather than in person. She would be mortified if anyone saw the ruby red flush that now filled her cheeks.
Apparently, Chiara’s awkward, prolonged silence was enough to clue Bella in.
“Oh, my God. Have you two found something else to occupy your time?”
“No!” Chiara’s reply was too quick, too adamant. And possibly too loud. Glancing around anxiously, praying Scythe was nowhere near enough to overhear, she lowered her voice to just above a whisper. “Believe me, you couldn’t be more wrong, Bella. At least, not where he’s concerned. I’m fairly sure he can’t stand me.”
Bella scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. Why on earth would you think something like that?”
“Because he’s done little but growl orders at me and stalk around like a caged animal since we left Rome. And I heard him tell Trygg on the phone a few nights ago that he was losing his mind having to—and I quote—lady-sit out here in the middle of nowhere.”
“I’m sure you’re reading more into it than you should. From what I understand, Scythe has been alone for a good number of years. He’s probably not the best company, but I doubt he meant the remark to be anything against you—”
“I touched him.”
“Excuse me?”
Chiara pinched the bridge of her nose. “It happened the first night we arrived at the villa. I was trying to tell him that I appreciated him being here, and I don’t know what came over me. I... reached out and I touched the scars at his neck. The next thing I knew, I had my fingers in his hair.” She blew out a miserable sigh, wanting to melt away in recalled humiliation. “I was practically pawing him, for God’s sake.”
She waited for her sister-in-law to express her shock or disapproval.
Instead, Bella laughed.
“I’m glad you can find humor in the situation. I was absolutely mortified. I still am. As for Scythe, he was furious. He couldn’t get away from me fast enough, and he’s been making a point of avoiding me ever since.”
“Are you sure?” Bella asked, a smile still lingering in her voice.
“Oh, I’m sure. In the past three days and nights, I’ve seen him perhaps a total of three minutes.”
“No, sorella. I mean, are you sure his response to your touch was truly anger? Or was it... something else?”
Chiara went silent, absorbing Bella’s words. Against her will, her thoughts raced back to that uninvited moment in her kitchen the first night with Scythe. His expression when she’d caressed his scars had been taut, unfriendly, even seething. Fire had crackled in his obsidian irises, and his fangs had been extended and sharp with warning.
She had dismissed his reaction as displeasure, but now that Bella made her think on it—really think on it—she wasn’t so certain.
And then there was that moment out among the grape vines.
Scythe’s kind words, even if delivered with his usual scowl and gruff demeanor. They had shared a few minutes of unguarded conversation. She had confided more in him than she had in anyone for longer than she could recall.
As impatient as he’d seemed to escape the intimacy of their brief talk, she had seen the proof of his reaction on his skin. His dermaglyphs had been infused with color in the seconds before he dismissed her to the house.
Those Breed skin markings, which were a more accurate indicator of his mood than anything he could do or say, had been flushed with dark indigo, burgundy and gold. Not black and red and stormy bottle-green.
Not fury, but desire.
“It doesn’t matter how Scythe might feel toward me. I’m not looking for anything from him or any other man,” she murmured. “I tried that once, and it didn’t turn out very well.”
“No, it didn’t.” Bella’s tone was gentle with understanding. “I regret that more than you will ever know. You deserved better than my brother, Chiara. And I’m not trying to suggest that I think Scythe might be suitable as a mate to you.”
“Then what are you suggesting?” Chiara wasn’t sure she wanted to know.
“I’ve never heard you so much as mention another male’s name since you met Sal,” Bella pointed out. “Not after he was gone, either. We’ve been talking for close to an hour today and we keep coming back to Scythe. I just think... I hope that you’re not punishing yourself for my brother’s failings. I hope you know that it’s okay to live your life, Chiara.”
“Of course, I know that.” But did she, really? How could she claim she’d moved on from Sal’s betrayal when she hadn’t known another male since? Not that allowing herself to get swept up in whatever was building between her and Scythe would solve any of her problems.
“Maybe Scythe needs the outlet as much as you do,” Bella added cheerfully.
Chiara could hardly stifle her outraged gasp. “You are out of your mind! I don’t see what possible good that will do either one of us.”
As outraged as she was, the indelicate snort that erupted on the other end of the line brought a grudging smile to Chiara’s face.
“Oh, sorella. If I have to tell you, then my brother was even more of a disappointment than I thought. When was the last time you did something just for yourself? Not for Pietro. Not for the vineyard. Just for you.”
Chiara shifted in her seat, suddenly uncomfortable under the weight of Bella's analysis. “I love being Pietro’s mother. As for the vineyard, everything I do here is for me. I can’t think of anything I’d rather do.”
“The vineyard is your job, Chiara. Your livelihood. It allows you to stay in the villa and care for your child in comfort. That's not what I mean. I’m talking about you as a woman. A flesh-and-blood woman with needs of your own. When was the last time you let that part of you truly live?”
Was she right? Chiara wracked her brain to think of sometime in the past five, even ten years, when something she’d wanted or something she’d done had been solely about her.
Sal had been her first and only lover. She had been happy with him in the beginning, back when he’d been charming and persuasive, seducing her into a blood bond only weeks after they’d met. She knew he had weaknesses, that he had a selfish streak, but she’d truly believed that her love would change him. She had trusted that their bond would settle him, help him grow into the man she hoped he could be.
And then Pietro had come along, and the rest hadn't mattered. Things she had wanted, things she had desired, no longer mattered much at all once she had a child to look after. It was only a few months later that Sal’s betrayal had come to light. Before she knew i
t, he was dead at Vito Massioni’s hand and she and Pietro were alone.
She had been alone ever since.
Three years without a man’s companionship.
Three years without a man’s touch.
She had closed that part of herself off... or so she’d believed.
She thought of Scythe and instantly shivered. How could someone so imposing, so hard and dangerous, make her feel so warm and soft inside?
How could he make her want so intensely?
As if conjured by the will of her subconscious, Scythe took that precise moment to emerge from somewhere in the villa. Silent on his feet, as stealthy as the killer he truly was, he stepped into the room. His jet-colored gaze glanced her way only briefly, but it was enough to set her pulse thrumming in her veins.
She turned her back to him in the chair, her cheeks still warm from all of Bella’s probing observations and outlandish advice.
“Thank you for checking in on me, sorella. Like I said, everything is just fine here.”
“Ah,” Bella replied, her tone sage with understanding. “So, he’s there in the room with you now, is he?”
Chiara tried to sound casual. “That’s right.”
“Wonderful. Let me speak to him.”
“Absolutely not!”
Bella’s giggle was bright and filled with a happiness that made Chiara’s heart clench. “All right, then. Just promise me you’ll think about what I said.”
Think about it? She doubted she would be able to put a single word of it out of her mind. Especially so long as Scythe was standing in the room with her, sucking out all of the air.
“I have to go now,” she told Bella. “I haven’t eaten a thing all day and I’m starv—”
The sound of the back door closing hard at Scythe’s heels brought Chiara’s head around sharply. He was already gone, heading out into the punishing rain. The gathering darkness swallowed him up.
“I’ll talk to you again soon,” she murmured into the phone, feeling a pang of disappointment light in her breast.
At least she didn’t have to worry about Bella persuading her to do something foolish with him.
Scythe seemed determined to keep as much space between them as possible.
Chapter 7
Another flash of lightning lit the dark sky and Scythe grimaced.
Drenched to the bone and miserable with cold, he made one more needless perimeter check of the vineyard property. As much as he preferred to avoid being in the house, he resigned himself to the fact that he couldn’t stay outside in the rain all damned night. He’d been a lot of bad things in his life, but coward had never been one of them.
To prove that to himself, he stalked in from the vineyard and up the stoop to the back door of the house. Through the rain-streaked glass, he paused there, watching Chiara cleaning up after her dinner. His stomach rumbled with hunger of his own as his gaze locked on the sight of her from behind.
She wore black leggings and an oversized, cream sweater that hung off one shoulder, seeming to cling there by sheer force of will. His mouth went dry as he imagined hooking one finger under the neckline and sending the whole thing pooling around her waist. Staring transfixed, he watched her walk over to the table and lean over it, wiping down the surface. Her small, lean body stretched out in an elegant line, and her hips rocked gently with each stroke of her hand.
Scythe tightened his fist at his side, refusing to let himself carry the vision of her into a fantasy he couldn’t afford to entertain. His jaw set firmly, rigidly, the points of his fangs biting into the flesh of his tongue.
She must have felt the weight of his gaze on her through the window. On a start, she wheeled around, eyes wide with fear. She relaxed only fractionally upon seeing it was him standing there, not the monster who’d attacked her.
Scythe grunted low under his breath.
If she only knew how dangerous he actually was to her safety and well-being. Especially when he was fighting a raging erection and a thirst for the vein that raced so frantically in her neck, he could see it where he stood.
Her free hand came up to her throat, whether a subconscious act of defense or in an effort to calm her fluttering heartbeat, he wasn’t sure.
She met him at the door before he could decide if he really wanted to open it.
“You’re soaked,” she said, frowning as she swung the panel wide. “Come in, Scythe, for God’s sake.”
He stepped in begrudgingly, feeling like a clod for the way he dripped all over her little welcome mat. She disappeared into the small bathroom down the hall, returning a moment later with a thick, fluffy towel in her hands.
“It’s a good thing the Breed can’t get sick. You might’ve caught your death out there in the rain and cold.”
He stared at her, telling himself he didn’t want or need her concern, despite that it kindled something inside him that felt too pleasurable, too affectionate, for his liking.
“Here,” she said, thrusting the towel at him. “Dry off and get warm.”
She backed away, but it took a long moment before she finally turned to resume her cleanup of the kitchen. And now here he was again, trapped in this rambling house with her. Strange how the space could be so large, yet he was still distinctly aware of her at all times. He felt her presence in his marrow, even when she wasn’t in the room with him.
And when she was? The air sizzled with awareness that he could neither shake nor deny.
She felt it too. He couldn’t fool himself by pretending the attraction between them was his burden alone. What would she do if he crossed the floor and took her in his arms? What would do if he sealed his mouth over hers the way he’d been dying to do since that first night they arrived?
If he grazed his fangs over the delicate vein at the side of her neck, would she scream and push him away? Or would she melt against him and let him breach that sacred font and take his fill?
The groan that sounded in the back of his throat seemed to fill the quiet of the kitchen.
Jesus, how long had it been since he fed?
He mentally ticked off the days, shocked to realize it had been almost a week. Only a week since he’d come here with Chiara, yet it felt like an eternity. An endless test of his discipline, not to mention his threadbare honor.
The Order still had incomplete intel and it appeared they were coming to a dead end on Chiara's assailant. His surveillance on the property had turned up nothing more threatening than a random deer or fox. His internal warning system had been quiet, too, which was making him twitchy. Sooner or later, something had to break. He hoped like hell it wouldn’t be him.
Fact was, the longer he denied his body nourishment, the more he put Chiara’s life at risk. Not only from his own base impulses, but from the threat he knew down to his bones was coming.
“I need to shower,” he muttered gruffly to Chiara’s back. Christ, did everything he said to her have to sound like an accusation? Awkwardly, he cleared his throat. “Thank you for the towel.”
“Of course.” She gave him a small nod, her pretty mouth curving in a smile that made his pulse kick. “You’re welcome, Scythe.”
As much as he wanted to soak for hours under the scalding spray of the shower, time away from his watch was time he left Chiara unguarded and vulnerable. After scrubbing himself with soldier-like efficiency, he toweled off and dressed in a dry black T-shirt and black jeans.
He had hoped to find her retired to her bedroom as she’d done every night before, but instead she was curled up in a cushioned chair in the living area with a glass of wine in her hand and a paperback book spread open in her lap. Her feet were bare, tucked to the side of her on the large chair, her tiny red toenails looking like glossy droplets of blood against her pale skin.
Scythe steeled himself to the guileless temptation of her.
“Everything okay outside tonight?” Her soft, husky voice poured over him like an elixir and he let his eyes drift shut for just a moment before he entered the room.
/>
“We’re battened down and secure. No sign of anything out of the norm. The same as it’s been out there every other damned night,” he added irritably.
She blew out a sigh and placed her book and wineglass on the coffee table. “I feel like we’re both prisoners here. Are you going as stir-crazy as I am?”
He grunted in reply, slanting her a dark look that surely conveyed more than any words could. Because he was too keyed-up to sit, he prowled the large living room, glancing with reluctant interest at the tall cases filled with well-worn books, knick-knacks, and framed snapshots of Pietro from infancy to recent times. Chiara’s things. The things that cataloged her life here at the villa, things that meant something to her.
Scythe moved on, drawn to the far side of the room, not only because it was farthest from her at the moment, but because his gaze had caught on something else now. Tucked into a quiet corner near an invitingly warm fireplace were a small pedestal table and two chairs. The table was, in fact, a chessboard. Arranged on top of it was a set of carved marble pieces... and one odd object on the board, duller and darker than the others.
Scythe recognized it instantly.
He picked up the carved stone lion. He knew the weight of it in his hand by memory. His fingers knew every curve and flaw in the piece, which he had shaped himself more than a decade ago. Before he’d lost his right hand.
Before he’d lost Mayrene and the little boy he’d originally gifted with the piece.
“The white knight has been missing from this board for years.” Chiara stood right next to him, her soft fragrance and quiet voice jolting him to attention. When he swiveled his head to look at her, she offered him a mild shrug. “Pietro thought your lion should take its place.”
Scythe felt his mouth twist into something between a scowl and a smirk as he replaced his crude carving on the checkered field with its snowy, richly detailed comrades.
“Do you play?”
He shrugged. “I know the rules of this one, but I’ve never played. I’m not much for games.”