VIOLA
No blood.
None at all.
Only the acrid smell of burning flesh tinged with copper. It fills the room with a vile stench, until Ethan drops the hot poker, face pale and bloodless like he’s seen a ghost. Or a devil…One with a smile demonic enough to make a girl shiver all the way down her fucking spine.
How should I feel seeing him standing there? Grateful? Elated? Relieved? I have no idea. Peace settles over me almost at once as Dante strides forward like a hurricane, picks up the fallen poker, and shoves it right through Ethan in a beautiful arc of vengeance.
As Ethan cries out and falls back, Gigi lunges for her gun.
She’s too slow.
Dante knocks her into the forge. She falls hands first into the fire, dropping the gun, rebounding with a snarl. Dante calmly slams her head into the wall until she’s out cold. Ethan, spitting blood and curses from where he is on the floor, isn’t quite dead. But I’m too absorbed in Dante leaning over me to care.
His cologne envelopes my senses. Excitement snakes through my body, bringing me back to life. As he rips away my bonds like they’re nothing but candy floss, I don’t breathe or move. Dante is an enigma. I’ve no idea what he’s going to do. Thankfully, he steps back allowing me up. If he’d have so much as tried to gather me in his arms, I would have bitten his fucking ear off.
I don’t waste any time. I throw myself off the table with an inhuman growl until I’m straddling Ethan, and then yank the poker from his body. Dante missed his heart and any vitals. No, he’s definitely not dead…yet.
Dante left him for me.
I shove the still-hot poker straight through Ethan’s eye, melting half his face off. His screams are beautiful. I’ll relish that sound forever and a day. When I’m done, I stagger to my feet only to then stumble right back down again.
Fuck. I’m actually in a lot of pain.
Too much pain to play happy rescue with my not-so-would-be hero.
Dante rescuing me…I snort a laugh as I breathe, and then wince as I move my legs in front of me. Searing agony blooms across my burnt thigh. Dante’s eyes narrow as he watches me just sitting on the floor laughing. Then his eyes sweep to the area where Ethan desecrated my flesh with daddy’s fucking company logo. Like I’m his fucking property.
“Don’t tell me you need me to carry you up the stairs, V. You weigh a ton,” Dante says casually. Though I don’t miss the tic in his jaw and the balling of his fist by his side.
“Fuck off. Touch me and I’ll make you wish you were dead,” I say as my chest restricts and my teeth grind. I pick myself up off the tiled stone floor for a second time and survey the damage.
Gigi is out cold. Ethan is dead.
It’s just me and Dante left.
Dante. I know he has a gun on him. I stare at my ex-mentor and assess his intentions. Why the fuck is he helping me? He was the one who brought me here and left me. He dumped me here for a reason. What does helping me now achieve? I did offer to pay him for killing my father, but that kind of money isn’t easy to come by, and I haven’t paid him yet. He must know I don’t have it.
And if he is helping me, can we shoot our way out of here with one fucking gun?
“Your father went to his office. There’s no one else in this part of the building,” my mentor says, reading my mind like his own. Then he departs upstairs, moving silently like a goddamn cat.
I step over a prone and motionless Ethan and limp up the stairs, out of the fucking basement, and after Dante with as much pride as I can manage. He’s waiting when I get to the top with barely veiled fucking amusement teasing his lips. I ignore him and locate the first aid kit. There should be something in there for a burn—cream or a cooling gel of some sort. I sense him lean against the wall, watching me toss the contents of the kit onto the counter. His attention switches over to the far side of the room where the door is before coming back again, ever alert.
Finally, I find what I’m looking for. I give a sigh of relief and part my skirt, exposing my leg. Only then do I glance at Dante.
His gaze locks with mine. His mouth is still curled into a bow-like smirk which just annoys the fuck out of me.
“You think this is funny,” I say to him, looking up into his usually emotionless blue eyes. Dante’s dead blue eyes are actually sparkling. “Am I hilarious to you?”
“No, I think you’re pretty perfect.”
His reply isn’t what I expected and it throws me. What do I say to that? Do I make a joke? Do I tell him to go fuck himself?
Pretty perfect.
What does that even mean? I have a fucking ‘H’ branded into my skin. How am I fucking perfect?I turn away from him and take some hardcore painkillers before putting the burn cream on, slathering it all over my thigh.