Vittoria
My eyes open, and my hand instinctively curls around the handle of my small dagger. I hear the rumble of men’s voices outside the door, so I sit up, leaning against the headboard. I draw my knees up, legs slightly apart. I’m tempted to confront him with the dagger in hand just to show him who he’s dealing with, but I need the element of surprise. I don’t exactly have a plan of attack or escape, but I won’t be playing victim anytime soon, so I push the pillow to my side and tuck the knife beneath it, then face the door and watch as it opens.
Steel eyes give nothing away as the man from the church enters, and my heart thuds against my chest. I glimpse the guard outside my door before he closes it. No one bothers to lock it this time. They’re not worried about me getting by, I guess.
He keeps his eyes on me as he walks around the bed, only glancing at my discarded shoes on the floor. I track him, too. He’s taken off his jacket and tie. He tosses my clutch onto the bed, then tucks his hands into his pockets and watches me. His shirtsleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and on his forearm, I see a tattoo. Dandelions that have become wishes.
I make myself look up at him, but it’s harder to hold his gaze than I like, and when that strange feeling of familiarity threatens to wash over me, I look away, grabbing my clutch. I open it to find only my lipstick. Of course, he’s gone through it and taken both my pistol and my phone. Kidnapping 101. Men like him learn that before they learn to walk.
I set the bag aside and turn to him, swinging my legs over the side of the bed and slipping my shoes on before I stand. He’s a lot taller than me, so I need all the height I can get.
Once I’m up, I face him.
His gaze moves over my black funeral dress. I don’t hide myself. He meets my eyes again and takes my phone out of his pocket.
“Password,” he says. It’s not a question.
I smile and spell it out for him. “F. U. C. K. Y. O. U.”
“That’s funny.” He cocks his head, then tucks the phone away. I’m not sure it’s a good thing or a bad one that he’s not going to force it out of me. He looks at my ripped stockings, hands casually in his pockets again. “Found your gun. Pretty little toy you brought to a funeral.”
“If you give it to me, I’ll show you what kind of toy it is.”
“I’m sure you would.” He looks me over. “Strip.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Excuse me?”
“Your clothes. Take them off.” He gestures with a nod of his head.
I try to appear unbothered. Unafraid. All while my heartbeats slow to heavy drumming against my chest.
“I don’t think so. I need to call my sister.”
“You’re in no position to make demands. Strip so I can search you.”
“She’s only five. She’ll be scared.”
“Honestly, a phone call should be the furthest thing from your mind at the moment, given your predicament.” He steps closer, and I steel myself to remain where I am. He’s near enough that I pick up a hint of aftershave, the same as earlier.
He studies my face while I study his. I’m unable to meet his eyes, though, so I focus on the scar that dissects his right cheek. The deep, white line is ten, maybe fifteen years old.
“That must have hurt,” I say when I’m able to meet his eyes. I remind myself he can’t see the beating of my heart or hear the rush of blood in my ears.
I’ve never really been afraid of men. My brother, Lucien, maybe, but it’s not quite fear that I feel with him. Maybe because our father always stood between us. He’s actually my half brother. We have different mothers. Emma and I share the same mom. But a palpable violence radiates off this man. A rage. Lucien doesn’t have that kind of passion.
This one? He scares me. But I cannot let him see that fear. If I do, he wins.
“Do you remember me?” he asks, surprising me.
I glimpse the dandelions on the table over his shoulder but shake my head.
“I don’t know you.”
“Hmm,” he mutters. He reaches out, and I flinch, but he just rubs the pad of his thumb along the side of my face. It’s calloused. He’s a man who works with his hands.
A strange sensation makes my stomach flutter, and I find myself standing still. I guess I expect him to hurt me. He looks down at his thumb, and I do too. It’s streaked a dark red. I must have missed it when I wiped my face earlier.
He takes hold of my jaw. It’s not a tight grip, and it doesn’t hurt. Yet. But he tilts my head up and searches my eyes. “Funny you don’t remember me because I remember you, Dandelion girl,” he says. “You thought they were daffodils.”