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chapter 4

I didn't answer him.

I picked Elena's head up off the marble with both hands, wrapped it back in the white silk it came in, and carried it to the balcony. Ryan followed me with his eyes but didn't stop me.

The planter by the railing was deep enough. I dug with my bare hands, my sister's wedding ring cutting into my finger. Dirt under my nails. Blood under that.

"Talk," Ryan said behind me.

"Non posso." [I can't.] The word slipped out before I could catch it. Italian always comes out when my hands are shaking.

He crouched beside me. Close enough that I could smell cedar again, and vodka he hadn't drunk last night. "I don't know what that means. Use words I understand."

"It means no."

I set Elena down gently. She trained me since I was ten. Taught me how to hold a knife, how to count a room, how to survive men who wanted obedience. She was the only person who ever called me by my real name before Rome. Now her mouth was sewn shut for it.

Ryan's hand closed around my wrist. Not cruel. Just still. "Who sent that box?"

"My mother."

His thumb brushed dirt off my knuckles. "And the girl in the photo."

I went very quiet. "My sister."

He let that sit between us for a long second. "So who did I marry?"

I looked up at him then. Dirt on my face, blood on my dress, Elena cold in the ground at my knees. "You know who I am."

"Say it."

I didn't. I never do. If I say it out loud, Victoria wins. If I say it out loud, this ends.

Ryan made a low sound in his throat, frustrated, furious, and then his mouth was on mine.

It wasn't kind. It was punishing. Teeth and heat and three years of being touched for money crashing into the first time anyone had kissed me because he wanted to. I bit his lip. He growled against my mouth and pulled me closer, dirt and all.

I kissed him back like I was trying to prove I was alive.

When he pulled away, we were both breathing hard. His forehead rested against mine for a beat, like he was deciding something. Then he stood, wiped his hands on his suit pants, and left me on the balcony with a fresh grave and a mouth that tasted like blood.

"Clean yourself up," he called over his shoulder. "We have a funeral to plan. Yours, if your mother sends another box."