Chapter 48 Always about him
Nico POV
I saw the reluctance in every step she took, the fear and doubt that plagued her. If there was a way for me to be able to relieve her of that burden just a little, I would have done it.
Goddammit, this was all too surreal going from a man who wanted to punish her, to a man who wanted to spare her any kind of torment.
We walked in silence down the dark halls. There was nothing we could say nothing I could say. For months I felt powerful as the Boss of this family, and now for the first time I felt completely helpless.
Every step we took toward her room felt like we were both on fucking death row, and too soon we stopped in front of the security door that led to her prison. The heaviness that fell over us as I punched in the code was downright toxic.
I opened the last door and let her walk through first.
A kidnapper with manners.
I leaned against the wall and admired how she looked in my white T-shirt. Her perfectly curved legs teased me. Her toned thighs taunted me.
And the way her blonde curls fell elegantly around her shoulders, the ends perfecting the curve of her back lila Falcone had become the epitome of to me.
When or how that happened I have no fucking clue. But it did happen, and I had no idea what to do with that.
All I knew was I no longer wanted to take her life, but rather take her for myself. I just needed to figure it out…somehow.
A sheet of white paper on the floor caught my attention. “Did you draw?”
She leaned against the opposite wall. “I did.”
Silence.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“For what?”
“For my reward.”
“There should be enough paper to keep you busy for a while.”
She smiled. “Actually, I used it all.”
“You did?” I lifted a brow.
“Yup. The chalk too.” She shrugged. “Drawing soothes me, and God knows I needed a lot of soothing. It also helps me sort through my thoughts whenever I feel confused.”
“What are you confused about?”
This time she lifted her eyebrows and it almost reached her hairline. “Are you seriously asking me that question? What I’m confused about?”
I rubbed the back of my neck. “Yeah, I guess that was a stupid question.”
Pushing myself off the wall I walked over to the sheet of paper, and noticed all the other pushed halfway under the bed.
“What did you draw?”
“Yeah, that’s another good question.”
I glanced at her as I picked up the first sheet. “You don’t know what you drew?”
“I kind of space out when I draw.”
I snickered. “Space out?”
A faint blush spread across her cheeks. “It’s an artist thing.”
“I’m sure it is.” I looked at the piece of paper I picked up, and swallowed hard when I stared at the image.
Lines and circles, light and dark shadows, it all came together in a portrait of…me. My heart stammered, my chest suddenly feeling too small for the way my heart swelled. Except…it wasn’t me. There was no scar. The portrait she drew was of my brother.
“It’s Nikolai.”
I dropped the sheet and picked up the others. Sheet after sheet was the same damn image.
Nikolai. Nikolai. Nikolai. Every damn picture was of him.
Fire. Red. Everything inside me burned with fire, my vision nothing but red. I was right. She didn’t see me. She saw my fucking brother every time she looked at me.
There were so many sheets of paper, and after what felt like the fiftieth one I tossed the rest on the ground and stood.
“It’s my brother. Of course it’s my brother.”
“Maybe it’s you.”
I glared at her and laughed maniacally. “Nice try. But for those images to be me, your drawings lack one specific thing.” I pointed at my scar, and her eyes grew wide. “None of your drawings has this on it.”
She stepped forward. “nico”
I grabbed her arm and twisted it behind her back before shoving her face against the wall. “When will you goddamn learn? It’s sir.”
She struggled against me. “I told you, only when we play.”
“Yeah?” I leaned down toward her ear. “Who says I haven’t been playing this entire time?”
With a hard jerk I let go of her arm and gave a step back. The anger I felt was something I couldn’t describe. It burned, but in the same time it fucking stung as if someone had stabbed me in the back with a thousand knives.
She turned, tears slowly trickling down her cheeks. I ignored it. The sight of her tears did nothing to tame the wild beast inside me.
I grabbed all the sheets from the floor and stomped to the door.
“I’m sorry…sir.”
I froze, her words shoving those thousand knives deeper into my back. “Not yet, you’re not.”
And then I closed the door, my insides numb. Glancing down at one of the sheets in my hand, at the image of my brother, I knew that I was
lost. Why? Because for the first time in my life I hated my brother.
Call it jealousy, envy, call
it fucked-up-ness, but I hated him so fucking much that I wished he was still alive so that I could drive a goddamn stake through his heart. This was what I had become, a man who mourned his dead brother, yet hated him too.
I blamed her. I blamed myself. I blamed him.