He's particularly agitated today.
It's bad enough that I'm effectively scared into silence, and when he starts us off—despite it being much too fast a pace—I work hard to keep up, not wanting him to have to slow down this time. It's clear he needs the physical release; I can practically feel the stress leaking from him with each controlled puff of breath, each strike of his shoe on the pavement.
But there comes a point when I inevitably begin to fall back, my legs aching, each breath feeling like fire crawling up my throat.
"Keep going," I pant when he turns around, "I'll just go back."
Santo comes back to my side, glaring. The fucker isn't even slightly out of breath. "Keep going. You're not pushing yourself."
"Yes, I am," I protest, quickly becoming annoyed. "I've pushed myself and now I'm at my limit. I'll go back."
"Bullshit," he snaps, fists clenching.
I weigh my next words, noting how he seems to be looking for a fight. "Look, I'm not a very... fit person. I can't keep up with your pace. If I could, I'd have a stupid sixteen-pack or whatever you have."
"Nobody ever said you're as fit as me. I'm just saying you can do better."
"Well, I don't want to! I want to go back before I pass out. Are you my personal trainer or something?" I huff, propping a hand on my hip. What is with this guy?
"You need one," he mutters.
"Fuck you!"
The words slip past my lips unheeded, before I can think. Before I can recall that the last time I said them, he shoved me against a wall and told me that the only thing holding him back from crushing me was his brother.
The gasp gets caught in my throat as Santo grabs my arm, pulling me along behind him as he storms into a shallow alleyway tucked between two buildings. Hidden from prying eyes, I yank my wrist away, pressing into the cold stone of one of the buildings, but there's not much space for me to get away from him.
"Do I strike you as a man who likes to waste his time?" Santo interlocks his hands behind his back, leaning casually against the wall.
And I do something immeasurably stupid.
Seeing the opening, I dart towards the street, a scream already poised at the tip of my tongue.
Hands latch around my waist, tugging me back into a hard chest. One warm palm covers my mouth, pressing hard enough that I can't utter more than a squeak.
I'm trembling and I know he feels every singular shiver, with his body practically wrapped around mine like this. His breath tickles my ear, raising goosebumps all down my spine as he murmurs, "let's try that again, shall we?"
Then, all the breath returns to me as I'm pushed up against the wall again. "You get one more shot," he says, "and I won't hesitate to end this."
"E-end what?"
"This little game we're playing," he says casually, leaning against the wall again. "You provoking me, while we both continue to pretend that you're not way past your third strike."
"Why pretend?"
He blinks, and I gather all the courage in my weak body that I never knew I had, saying, "you don't strike me as a man who likes to waste his time. You also don't strike me as a man who likes to show mercy. So why keep pretending? Why not just do it?"
For several seconds, we look at each other, all the noises of the city fading to an indecipherable hum. I don't breathe.
Then, he breaks out into chuckles. Real chuckles, like I've just told him the funniest joke. "You're asking me to kill you?"
"I'm saying that you're lying to both me and yourself," I say boldly, angry that he's laughing at me. "If you really were who you appear to be, you would've killed me that day. In the basement."
He's still shaking his head in amusement, teeth flashing white in the shadows of the alleyway as he toggles with the rings on his fingers.
Frustration, humiliation—all the emotions of the weak girl I've become so familiar with, having been her my whole life—bubble up in the ugliest, hottest ball of indignation somewhere deep, deep inside of me. And I'm forced into action by some part of me that operates on its own free will, without the permission of my brain or anything sane.
I lunge, reaching towards the slight bulge at Santo's waistline, knowing he keeps a knife concealed safely there. I've seen him strap it there before we leave the house, seen him subconsciously reach for it at various times we've passed people he deems a potential threat.
First, I feel skin. Searing hot, silky-smooth skin. I haven't calculated exactly what this course of action entails and now I'm faced with it—my hand, halfway down Santo's shorts, my fingers brushing up against the velveteen skin of his abdomen.
Santo's hand is on my wrist, having flown there with insanely fast reflexes, but he doesn't rip my touch away. No, he lets it stay, for a brief yet eternal moment where I stare up into the black of his irises and the soft pop of his lips, pink against his golden skin.
I can feel the ridge of his hipbone, the soft hair that decorates his taut abdomen and disappears into his shorts, where... where my hand is currently resting. His breath shudders, and I flush hot.
Oh, God.
I grab the knife and rip my hand away. For once caught off guard, Santo doesn't lift a finger to stop me as I take his knife and bring it up to my neck.
"There," I tremble, my voice nearly a whisper, shaken back and forth by the tempest raging all over his features. "There, I even did most of the work for you. Now what are you waiting for?"
He's so still that it doesn't even look like he's breathing. His eyes are focused on where the cool metal of the blade rests against my skin, so close to cutting into the flesh. Right next to the scar that I know is freshly present from the last time the two of us encountered a knife.
And I swear, I swear he's going to do it. Finally just kill me.
There's an emotion blazing in the depths of his gaze—excitement, at the sight of the knife so close to drawing blood. Or... or something else. Something I can't make sense of. But he's a sinner who's come face to face with his greatest temptation and there's no way he can resist.
Suddenly, he moves.
Gripping my wrist and yanking it away from my neck, simultaneously drawing me closer to him. I tremble against his large chest as he rips the knife from my hand, throwing it away so roughly that it bounces off the wall and skitters to the furthest corner of the alleyway.
"Don't you ever," he says, the tip of his nose nearly brushing mine as he leans down, "ever do that again."
+
We don't say a word to each other on the way back.
Not one.
My body feels weightless, my legs light as feathers, and I think I run faster than I ever have the whole way to the mansion. I don't stop moving until I'm safe in my bedroom, sinking onto the bed in a heap of tired limbs. The exhaustion creeps suddenly in. So does the trembling.
My dull shock has subsided, leaving the sharp edges of panic to scratch me raw.
Panic at all the unknowns, my safety being the most pressing one. But, more horrifyingly, at the way parts of Santo seem to be seeping through cracks in the walls I've set up for myself.
I spend an inordinate amount of time in the shower trying to scrub myself clean, rubbing my hands with soap and scalding water until I can't feel the silky heat of his skin at my fingertips.
I wrap myself in a fluffy towel, avoiding my reflection in the mirror as I leave the bathroom—nearly screaming my throat raw at the sight of a figure sitting on my bed.
Santo appears like he just showered too, his hair looking like wet ink. It makes his eyes appear lighter, or maybe that's the sun bathing his face in its soft glow, one far too angelic for the killer it rests so delicately upon. He's pretty in an awful, forbidden way—like oil spilled on asphalt that glistens in chromatic hues under the sun's heat, makes you step to the side to avoid it but still has you looking at it, marveling at unexpected beauty in something that's supposed to be repulsive.
I clutch at my towel, mentally welding my hands to the cloth and the cloth to my body. But his eyes don't once stray from my face as he rises, moving towards me in confident strides.
"I have another assignment," he says, stopping a safe distance away. "Be ready to leave by 9 a.m. tomorrow. No later."
Then, he's moving swiftly past me, giving me a wide berth—like he can't stand to be too close—and I'm left wondering if maybe he's trying to forget that moment in the alleyway too.
+
"I asked for water. Not fucking alcohol."
I curl my legs closer to my chest, forcing my eyes to stay glued to the tarmac that's cooling in the chill of the day outside the small window of the jet. Santo's irritated voice keeps piercing the quiet—first he was upset our departure would be delayed ten minutes as they finished fueling the jet. Now, he's upset at the flight attendant handing him a glass of champagne.
"I'm sorry s-sir. I-I'll be right back with your water," she stutters, nearly crying and shitting herself. Sympathy for her rockets through me. It's small, but she's yet another person who gets to feel his sharp edges and be cut up by his temper. He leaves irritated cuts and bruises on everyone he interacts with, always frowning or scowling or growling something. He's a walking hazard, covered in spikes that pierce you if you get too close.
He could probably use the alcohol. It would help him chill from whatever's crawled up his ass and died this morning.
"You should sit with your legs on the floor, not crunched up like that. It's unsafe."
My eyes slide to him but I don't move otherwise, nearly in denial that he's actually acknowledging my presence. He's gotten tired of harassing the flight crew and has shifted his irritation to me now, judgmentally regarding the way I'm curled in a ball in my seat.
No. It's not your business how I sit.
Since when do you care about my safety?
Stop looking at me.
Several replies zip through my head, but I keep them where they are. In silence, I slowly lower my legs to the floor, wishing I could drink that fucking champagne since he won't.
He nods in approval, right as the aircraft starts moving. We glide smoothly down the runway, picking up speed, and I take note of his knuckles turning white as he grips the armrests. The jet tilts and bumps just slightly as we lift into the air, and I watch in fascination as his face crumples in weakness, eyes squeezing shut, his whole body painfully tensed.
Realization dawns on me right as he schools his features, that brief panic I witnessed no more than a memory. Mere seconds later, he looks like his normal self—irritated and a bit tense—and I could swear I imagined the whole thing. I had to have. The vulnerability is gone from him so thoroughly that I'm in awe of how exhaustively he hides it. It's uncanny, but the fact remains—I've just discovered this man's only weakness.
Santo hates flying.
It becomes apparent to me throughout the flight, and I wonder how I didn't realize it before. I spent that whole flight looking out the window, dutifully ignoring him, but how did I miss these little idiosyncrasies? The way his breath audibly hitches whenever the aircraft jostles even just a little bit. His foot tapping up and down, up and down, a million times. How he keeps his eyes fixed dutifully ahead, avoiding the windows on either side of him, which is the only reason I can observe him without being discovered. He's too focused on quelling his discomfort.
"Why the fuck are you staring at me, huh?"
Oops.
I can literally feel the blush warming my ears. Has he known I've been staring at him this whole time? The thought is beyond humiliating.
I didn't know you were scared of flying.
The response is on the tip of my tongue, my reflex being to divert his accusatory tone and my own humiliation by bringing up something I now hold over him. A vulnerability. The singular crack in his armor. It would be easy; he would deserve it. I could poke at him, use this to get under his skin, make him uncomfortable that I know something about him likely no one else knows. This, above iced coffee and dishes in the sink, would accomplish the one thing I have to hold onto right now. The only solitary power I possess—getting under his skin.
I stay silent.
Going back to staring out my window, not straying my gaze away for the rest of the flight, I'm still not immune to his presence. I can still hear the pattern of his breathing switching up, and his foot taps have become louder now, loud enough that I can hear them and almost taste his unease as it fills the air with soft tap tap tap's.
We land after a long few hours in a city that might as well be on Mars for all I know about its location. I've dedicated myself to zipping my mouth shut today, not wanting to mess with Santo's temper, frayed nerves, and whatever else is closer to the surface right now.
He shoulders both our bags and I follow him quietly as we get into a car waiting for us. I crane my neck the whole bumpy ride through this unknown city, observing the buildings and the people like they'll be able to tell me where we are. I've never really been anywhere, so despite the unknown, there's almost a... thrill at being somewhere new. And everything is entirely new—the people and their stories and the clothes they wear, trees, city layout and buildings, restaurants, air, sky... everything feels slightly different.
"Seattle."
Santo's looking at me with a new expression, one I haven't seen him wear before. I'm too excited about observing the life of the city—of Seattle—so I don't spend time trying to dissect it. My nose is glued to the window for the rest of the ride, until we pull up to a hotel that towers high into the sky, so high it almost makes me dizzy trying to find the top.
Our hotel room is worlds different from the cabin. It's cold and sterile the way hotels are—it's all white sheets and their sharp edges tucked tightly into the mattress, cups and utensils wrapped in plastic, spotless surfaces and colorless walls.
There are two beds this time, but it's more daunting than the one in the cabin. These beds are mere feet apart, close enough that I'll be able to hear him breathe, practically feel the heat of his body simmering so close to mine. In the cabin, at least he was all the way across the room. I banish the thought as I notice the wine and chocolates that have been left out for us on the table.
Now that I notice it, there are also two wine glasses sitting out, like they're just beckoning us to sit down and drink from them. And the chocolates are arranged in the shape of a heart...
Is that normal?
Santo's curse comes muffled from the bathroom. He storms past me to the phone in between the beds in a windstorm of spiced cologne and fresh irritation. It's almost humorous how violently he dials, spurring me to go poke my head into the bathroom.
"What the fuck is going on? I specified that I wanted a suite with two queen beds—where in the fresh shit does that imply, 'I'm on a honeymoon with the love of my life?' Huh? I want someone to come up immediately and fix it..."
His voice trails to the back of my mind as I see it, and laughter escapes before I can stop it.
The jacuzzi tub—giant and heart-shaped—is filled with steaming water, spongy bubbles that must be piled at least a foot high, and rose petals in all different shades of pink and red. Two towels, folding in the shape of hearts, rest by the tub along with more strategically placed wine bottles.
I poke my head back out the door, catching Santo's pissed off expression as he listens to the person on the other end of his call. He frowns at me as I shake my head, cutting my finger across my throat in a silent gesture.
"Don't worry about it. I'll just be in here. No need to waste it. Don't let anyone come in." I slam the door shut before he can respond, finding with glee that I can lock it. It's a small detail yet simultaneously the most significant—because for once, I can lock a door without someone locking it for me. For once, I'm locked in somewhere that Santo can't come. And I've got wine and a bubble bath with me.
Within seconds, my clothes are off and I've got a bottle in my hands, ready to shut off the world for a little bit. Or maybe just him. The rest of the world can stay.