The idea that we are a lot alike in some of those respects starts to instill a sort of fear in me.
The minute we step into the house, the scent of lemon and other household chemicals hit hard, jarring me. Clicking on the light, I spot a notice on top of an empty plant stand for a recent extermination. Glancing around, I see that the house is spotless—the shelves are dusted. Walking into the kitchen, I open the cupboard and see the dishes have been washed and neatly stacked. Glancing over at Delphine as she settles in her recliner, she answers my unspoken question without so much as looking at me. “She didn’t want you to know, but now you do.”
Cecelia.
Instantly, the liquid passing through the beat in my chest solidifies her name inside before passing through to the other.
Whoosh. Whoosh.
Whoosh. Whoosh.
I can’t even imagine the reception she was met by when she showed up.
Chest aching with the need to get to her, panic briefly seizes me. “Fuck, did she—”
“No,” she squelches that fear, reading my thought. “His room is still locked.”
When she finally looks at me, I see that same guilt I saw the night Cecelia knelt at her feet begin to seep into her expression.
“What?” I ask, walking over to where she sits and crossing my arms. “We’ve been sharing bluntly all night, Tatie. Why stop now?”
“I’ve wronged her,” she whispers low, gaze distant, “in the past.”
“Wronged Cecelia?”
She nods, her eyes watering.
Fuck.
“It’s the most despicable thing I’ve ever done.” Her eyes gloss with memory. “When I,” she shakes her head as a sharp pang of protectiveness thrums through me.
“Tell me,” I demand.
“It was a long time ago,” she assures.
“I’m listening.”
“When I worked at the plant. I told you . . . I was close to her mother, Diane, for a short time.”
I nod.
“After they died, I knew she knew what happened and that Roman had something to do with it. I was angry.”
“Delphine, what did you do?”
“Cecelia was an infant,” she whispers as if her timbre will have any bearing on the delivery. “I got really drunk and broke into her mother’s house.”
“And?”
“I put a loaded gun in Cecelia’s crib,” she grimaces, “while she was sleeping in it.”
“Jesus Christ, Tatie.”
“I wanted to send a message to Roman that we knew that fire wasn’t an accident.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing,” she assures. “I left the safety on.”
“Oh, well, that changes everything.” Fury seeps into me as I pull the keys from my jeans pocket when lightning flickers just outside the living room window.
“Dominic,” Delphine calls behind me, but I ignore her, my chest thundering as the rain begins to pour off her roof. Whatever confessions Delphine has left, I decide she can take them to her grave or find a priest to confess to. The image of Cecelia with a loaded gun at her head sends a shiver through me, making me physically ill as I pound down the steps and start my Camaro. Tearing out of the drive, the need to come clean surges through me as I race toward the townhouse—toward her. As much as I fucking hate Roman, as it turns out, my own family is just as guilty of the same malicious intent concerning her. It strikes me on the drive that no matter who guards them, secrets—especially those that are most fatal—have a way of poisoning those who keep them, as well as those on the receiving end of discovering them. When it comes to my tie to Cecelia, we were damned before we met—through no fault of our own—and in discovering each other, we’re both slowly being poisoned.
Pulling into the drive, relief covers me at the sight of Cecelia’s car. Thunder rolls as I exit, and get drenched in the seconds it takes to get to the door. Cracking it open, I see Cecelia bundled on the loveseat facing the sliding door, earbuds in as she reads along with the audio on her Kindle. Closing the door with a soft click, I creep in, ducking behind the couch when she senses she’s not alone. Waiting until she’s comfortably reading again, I pounce from behind, soaking her with my dripping hair as I grip her and pull her over the back of the couch.
“Dom,” she shrieks, palming and pushing against my soaked T-shirt as I shake my head, shedding water and soaking her in the process. Twisting her to face me, I scoop her into my hold before resting her ass on the edge of the couch.
“You’re terrible,” she laughs as she sinks into me, and I shut up the rest of her protests with my kiss. When I break it, I pull back to admire the heat in her eyes, lids hooding, breaths coming fast, a slow smile spreading across her face with her greeting. “Hi.”
Her legs tighten securely around me as I lift her up and walk us toward the stairs.
“God, you’re soaked. Let’s get you dry,” she says, squirming in my hold.
“Let’s get you wet,” I counter.
When she bites her lip, the divot in her chin brings my cock full mast.
“How was work?” she asks.
“Work.”
She rolls her eyes. “How are you?”
“Still me,” I jest.
“Motherfucker.”
“Only the once,” I taunt.
Her body tenses. “I didn’t need to know that.”
I widen my eyes. “But you seem to need to know everything else.”
She sobers and takes offense. “You really just want me pliable and mute?”
I press my lips together as she slaps my chest playfully and tries to pry herself away when we reach the top of the stairs. “Such an asshole.”
“Told you I was.”
“You can tell me many things, but you’ll never convince me of that, sir. Not that way.”
“You should believe me,” I warn.
“Stop trying to scare me away from you, Dom. I’m not going anywhere.”
I set her on her feet as she surveys my room. “So, what’s it going to be tonight? We could read . . . I could make you dinner or breakfast? How about runny eggs and a movie?”
I nod.
An hour later, we’re stretched out beneath our freshly laundered blanket—inhaling the fresh scent I can’t place. I glance around the townhouse. It’s just the two of us, with Sean working his night shift at the plant and Tyler unaccounted for—as he has been the last week—spending both his days and nights elsewhere. I suspect that if I drive back to Delphine’s, I’d find his truck in the driveway, but I don’t bother trying to draw that out of him.
I’ll make peace with Delphine for her confession at some point, but that’s not happening tonight, as the same surge of protectiveness sweeps me. Swallowing, I fixate on Cecelia as she watches the movie, completely rapt, hand still in the popcorn bowl. Grabbing her hand, I lift it and suck the remnants of the cheddar from her fingers. She turns my way briefly, and I release her, feigning interest in the story playing out on screen. When she turns back to the TV, I keep her hand in mine, running my thumb along the back of her delicate hand before splaying my palm next to hers. Mine rough and calloused, hers smooth against it. My digits thick in comparison to her slim, delicate fingers. Mine covered in blood and wrath, while hers remain unsoiled.