Greta shakes her head. “It’s late.”
“He’s on call,” I grit and she murmurs,
“And I’m on a diet.”
Annoyance flares in me. “I want you nourished, not starved,” I snap and she twitches, gazing up at me with wonder in her eyes.
“Why?” she whispers.
Because I care about her. Because I want her fertile and I want her satisfied.
“Don’t want your mother to think I’m not looking after you,” I reply and hesitate for a moment before sitting next to her and Greta freezes as if someone just poured a bucket of ice water over her head.
“What are you doing?” she whispers. “You never sit with me like this.”
A muscle ticks in my jaw. “You want me to leave?”
“No!” she blurts. “I didn’t mean to sound r...rude.”
Nothing she ever says sounds rude. Her voice is crystal clear and I love hearing it coming out of her delicate lips. Rubbing the back of my neck, my eyes go to the black and white movie playing on the TV but I don’t pay it any attention.
This is the closest I’ve ever been to Greta. There’s not enough room between us to fit another person. I want to grab her legs and pull her over my lap and listen while she tells me about her day. That must be so fucking relaxing. Heavenly.
And I’ve had a hard time relaxing ever since Greta came into my world.
I’ve never cared much about what I do before. I just saw it as a job that needed to be executed but now I worry what will happen when Greta finds out she’s been living with a mobster the whole time. I doubt Greta even knows what the mafia is. Probably thinks it died out in the eighties like everybody else.
She has no idea about the rougher parts of life. I bet that if I put a bullet under Greta’s thick mattress, she’d still be able to feel it. She’s a little princess but unlike in the tales she won’t end up with a prince. Greta will end up with me.
A villain. Abadman. What an unfortunate fate for her and what a glorious fate for me.
Stretching my legs, I tense when I notice from the corner of my eye that Greta can’t eat properly. Her hand trembles as she tries bringing the fork to her mouth and her chewing’s mechanic. I terrify her but fuck I’m just trying to be friendly.
I want her to warm up to me.
I want her close and all up in my fucking business.
“How’s Guinevere?” Guinevere’s Greta’s palomino mare and Greta gawks, acting as if a spaceship just entered the living room.
“You r...remembered her name?” She licks her lips. “She’s f...fine.”
“And how are the piano lessons going?” I ask in what I assume is a soothing tone but Greta still twitches, glancing at me like I just asked her to tell me the color of her underwear. I already know the color. White. She always wears white as if she insists on hammering the fact that she’s untouched into my head.
As if it already doesn’t make my temples pound from need, as if it doesn’t make me feel like I can’t get enough air at the thought of being her first.
“Okay,” she murmurs slowly as if she’s not trusting the two of us being able to hold a conversation. “Dame Blanca’s a good teacher.” She grimaces. “But sometimes she slaps me on my fingers when I mess up.”
Ice wraps around my heart and I whisper, “She does what?”
Greta shrugs. “I don’t mind. It doesn’t hurt and I always play better after she scolds me.”
“If she ever puts a hand on you again tell her Dacre will...,”drop a fucking piano on her stupid ass head.I trail off, controlling myself and add, “Fire her.”
“Don’t fire her,” Greta pleads and her sudden distress makes her forget about her wariness in front of me. “She’s been teaching me for ages and besides...,” Greta purses her lips, “you’re not the one who hired her. My mother did.”
Yeah, but I’m the one paying her. Greta’s mother’s as poor as a fucking church mouse. That’s why she agreed to marry my father. Though my father would’ve never been able to support the lifestyle Greta’s used to but I am.
I pay for this penthouse, I pay for Greta’s piano lessons, I pay for her luxury goods. I keep up appearances for Greta’s sake. Because it would kill her if she ever found out she was supposed to fall from grace if it hadn’t been for me.