Play Me (30 page)

“You didn't know,” I whisper as I press kisses to his mouth. “You didn't know what had happened to me.”

“That's not a good enough excuse. Not when I hurt you. Not when I made you feel helpless.” He bows his head, rests his forehead against mine. And for the first time I see the tears in his eyes. Tears of sorrow and remorse and fury. It's a deadly combination, one that will corrode his insides until there's nothing left but acid so caustic it hurts to swallow. To breathe.

I know, because I lived through that same cocktail of emotions. For days, weeks, months.

“You didn't know,” I tell him, “because I didn't tell you. I couldn't admit that when I first went to my mom and asked for help, she showed me which concealers cover bruises best. And when I went to my father a couple months later, he told me that I should act better if I didn't want my fiancé to hurt me. That I should stop making mistakes.”

I shake my head, still astonished at their cruelty, their blindness, after all these months. “But I wasn't making mistakes. I was doing everything exactly how Carlo wanted it and still he came up with a reason to hurt me.”

“Because it made him feel good.”

“Yes.”

Sebastian's fists clench before he takes a few deep breaths, makes himself relax. “So what made you decide to leave? I'm grateful you did, but what—”

“Carlo…went crazy. A friend of mine from college was in town and we were having lunch—lunch, not drinks, not dinner, not sex—just lunch. Catching up on what had been going on in our lives since college. We'd never been more than friends—I met him because he was dating my roommate for most of our four years at school—but Carlo didn't see it that way. He was furious, accused me of cheating on him. He beat James almost to death in front of me, had a couple of his men hold me back while he did.

“And then he started on me. He nearly killed me—not that I was in any state to put up a fight. How could I be when James's battered, unconscious body was lying only a few feet away from me? All I could think was that I had done that. I was the one responsible for his death—the one who caused it and the one, who, in the end did nothing to stop it.”

I wait for Sebastian's condemnation. Wait for him to withdraw from me as I so richly deserve. But seconds tick by, become minutes, and he still doesn't move away from me. Instead, he just stands there, fists clenched and jaw locked together. His green eyes are darker than I've ever seen them and for a moment—just a moment—he looks like Carlo did that night.

A man on the brink. Self-control shattered. Rage running over.

Again, I brace myself for the explosion. Again, it never comes.

Instead he asks, his voice low and tight and gravelly, “What did he do to you?”

“To me?” I'm confused at the question. What happened to me isn't important. It's what happened to James that matters.

“I don't believe he nearly killed a man with his bare hands and then just walked away from you without some kind of retaliation.”

“No. Of course not. But it isn't imp—”

“Don't tell me what's important and what's not!” Sebastian snaps at me. “I want to know what that son of a bitch did to you. Either it comes from you or I go ask him.”

“No! You can't.” Just the thought of him anywhere near Carlo terrifies me. Sebastian is smart, powerful, more than capable of holding his own in any normal situation. But Carlo…Carlo is a monster. And a devious one at that. He doesn't play fair, doesn't play by any rules I've ever heard of. He does what he wants when he wants to and because he's a Valducci, no one ever tells him he can't.

“Then tell me what he did to you.”

“It doesn't matter. I'm fine.”

“You're not fine. And even if you were, I still need to know what happened.”

“No.” No one needs to know that.

“Tell me,” he orders, and this time he reaches for me, pulls me against him.

I go, because I'm weak and useless and I don't want to fight him. Not now, not on this. Not when I've just spent four days without Sebastian.

“He hurt you.” It isn't a question.

I nod against his chest.

His already taut muscles grow even stiffer. But the hand that strokes my hair is gentle, sweet. “Tell me.” This time it's a request, an almost desperate one. And while it's easy to defy Sebastian when he's ordering me around, I can't deny him anything when he asks. When he holds me this tenderly. Not even the story I'd do anything not to tell.

“I thought he was dead. James, I mean. He was so bloody and broken and still…I was sure Carlo had killed him. I went crazy, started screaming at him. Two of his men were still holding me back and no matter how hard I tried to get away from them, how hard I tried to get to James, I couldn't.

“When he was finished with James, Carlo walked over to me. He was covered in my friend's blood and there was this look in his eyes—this bloodlust—that hurting James had done nothing to alleviate. I knew it was going to be bad, but to be honest, I didn't care. Something about seeing James lying there, thinking he was dead…I snapped. In that moment, I wanted Carlo to kill me. Wanted it to be over. In that moment, I couldn't imagine spending the rest of my life living like that.”

The admission hurts, but Sebastian wanted the truth. Besides, I'm just so sick of lying—to him and to myself. It's past time for all my ugly secrets to come out.

“He hit me and instead of apologizing like I normally did, I taunted him. I refused to back down. If he was going to kill me, then I wasn't going to go out whimpering. Or at least, that's what I figured.”

“He didn't kill you.” It's more growl than actual words at this point.

“No. But he came close. By the time he was done, he'd given me a concussion, broken three of my ribs and damaged my spleen. I was in the hospital for over a week. Two days before I was set to be released, when my parents came for their daily visit, I asked for their help. My dad said he'd talked to Carlo, and assured me that it wouldn't happen again. He also told me he'd paid for James's medical care and paid him—or scared him—enough to keep quiet. It wasn't enough. Wasn't nearly enough. And then my mom started in on wedding plans like we were at afternoon tea and not in my hospital room where I was recovering from being beaten half to death.

“I let her talk, let her cement the plans. I even chose the pattern for my bridesmaids' dresses. And then, when they left, I lay there, trying to decide what to do. Going back to Carlo, to that life, wasn't an option. I couldn't stand to look at him, let alone marry him. Which meant I could either find a way to kill myself before I got released or I could run away. And it turned out, despite the suicidal actions that had put me in the hospital to begin with, I didn't want to die.

“So I waited until the nurse came around for my nightly medicine dose and vitals check. Then, when I was sure it would be hours before she knew I was gone, I pulled out the IV, unhooked the monitors and walked out with nothing but my purse and the silk pajama set my mother had brought me at the hospital. I went to the closest ATM, took out the three hundred dollars it let me take, and I never looked back.

“I went to the cheapest hotel I could find, spent a week healing enough to cover my bruises with makeup, and then another week looking for a job to pay the bills while I worked out a better plan. I knew I should just walk away, should just leave Vegas forever. But I couldn't leave Lucy forever. Not with them, not when she's so fragile and sick and no one even knows how long she's going to live. If it wasn't for her I don't think I ever would have spoken to my parents again.”

“You shouldn't have to speak to them again, shouldn't have to have anything to do with them—“

“I need to see Lucy—”

“I know a lot of really good lawyers, Aria. Lucy doesn't have to stay with those bastards any more than you do.”

“But I can't afford—”

“Are you kidding me?” he demands, pushing me away just far enough that he can look in my eyes. “Are you fucking kidding me with that?”

“I know you want to help. I get that. And it means more to me than I can ever tell you, but there's no way I can let you make yourself a target like that. My father would kill you if you tried to interfere with his family—”

“Your father is welcome to try. But he needs to understand that you're not his family anymore. You're mine. And unlike him, I protect what belongs to me.”

My breath catches in my throat at the possessiveness of his tone. At the certainty that I am his. “I don't belong to anyone. Not now, not ever again.”

Sebastian swoops down and kisses me, and it's the most thrilling kiss I've ever had. Hard yet soft, demanding yet giving, burning hot yet so sweet it literally takes my breath away. When he finally pulls back my knees are weak and my heart is beating so fast that I can barely catch my breath.

“You belong to me, Aria,” he tells me and he's never looked more serious. More determined. “Just like I belong to you. This isn't about control, isn't about anything but the fact that I love you and—”

“What did you say?” I demand, certain that I've heard him wrong. Certain that he didn't just say what I thought he did.

“I said I love you. And I want to spend every day for the rest of my life proving it. I want to cherish you like you deserve, Aria. To give you all the things Carlo was too fucking stupid to.”

I don't answer for long seconds—I can't. My throat is thick with unshed tears and shock and I don't want to be crying the first time I tell Sebastian that I love him.

So instead of answering his declaration with one of my own, I tangle my hands in his hair and tell him, “Say it again.”

He looks a little alarmed. “Which part?”

“The part where you told me you love me.”

“That's easy. I love you, Aria, and I want—”

“That's enough.” I clap my hand over his mouth. “That's more than enough. Because I love you, too. And I want to spend the rest of my life taking care of you, too.”

He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. Even manages a smile. “Thank God, Aria. Thank God.”

And then I'm in his arms and he's kissing me and I'm kissing him and nothing else matters. Not the past, not the future. Not the pain we've caused each other nor the pleasure that is to come. In those seconds, wrapped in each other's arms with the Strip lit up and spread below us at our feet, everything is perfect.

It's minutes—or maybe hours—before we come up for air. When we do, Sebastian walks over to the bar and pops a celebratory bottle of champagne. But when he goes to hand me a glass, he looks a million miles away.

“What are you thinking about?” I ask, after pressing a soft kiss to his mouth to regain his attention. He hesitates, and I can tell he's trying to figure out if he wants to tell me the truth. But I don't want lies between us, no matter how small. My whole life has been filled with secrets, with things we just didn't talk about. That's not the kind of life I want to build with Sebastian.

I tell him so and he nods, sets his glass of champagne to the side. Then does the same to mine. It's only when he has my hands tight in his that he finally answers.

“I was thinking about Dylan. About how he never had the chance to fall in love with a woman. How he never had the chance to build a life for himself away from all the darkness.”

It hurts me to see him look so sad, so lost. Sebastian always knows what he's doing, always knows what he wants. Seeing him look so uncertain hurts me in a way even my parents' neglect couldn't.

“What happened to Dylan wasn't your fault.” It's not the first time I've said it to him and I'm pretty sure it won't be the last. But that's okay. I'll keep saying it until it gets through. Until he believes me.

“What happened to James isn't your fault, either.”

My eyes meet his and I want to argue with him, want to tell him that it was totally my fault. That I should have known better than to think Carlo would understand. Should have known better than to think it could turn out all right.

But as I stare into Sebastian's eyes, I finally understand the truth of his own guilt. Just like I understand that the best way to help him is to let go of my own feelings of culpability. It's not easy, not something I ever thought I'd be able to do. But for Sebastian…for Sebastian, I think I'd do just about anything. Even this.

“Maybe we could do something,” I tell him.

“Do something?”

“We can't make what happened to them any better, can't undo what they suffered. But maybe we could, I don't know, start a foundation or something. For victims of violence. To help with medical bills, and help them get their lives back on track.”

Sebastian looks at me for long seconds, and I'd almost think he hadn't heard me except I can all but see his brilliant mind whirling with ideas. “We could do that. We could totally do that. We could even have services and stipends set aside for the families of victims. To help them get counseling or whatever they need.”

I know he's thinking of Janet now and somehow it makes me love him more. I don't know how—out of all the pain, all the violence—I managed to find this man. Don't know what I ever did to deserve him. But I'm keeping him.

“We could name it after Dylan,” I suggest tentatively. “Maybe see if Janet wants to be involved somehow. It could help her get clean.”

“Yeah. And you could run it.”

“Me?”

“Damn straight. Maybe you can finally put that Vassar degree of yours to work.”

I start to smile as the idea sinks in. “Yeah. Maybe I could.”

“We're doing it, then. You'll run the foundation and I'll…”

Something about the way his voice trails off makes my voice chill. “You'll do what?”