Broken Promises: (Broken Duet #2)

I’m a princess locked in the highest tower, waiting for prince charming to conquer the archenemy. Just… instead of a tower, there’s a bulletproof house. And the archenemy is already dead, taunting me from the underworld. In this tale, the prince may well be the archenemy himself. He carries a gun, talks dirty, fucks angry, and loves fiercely. He’s also the one who locked me in the bulletproof house.

Not that I mind.

We’ve been back in Chicago for twenty-four hours now. Julij organized the security detail before we arrived. Six armed men secure the perimeter of Dante’s house, two more stand their ground at the gate, and three Rottweilers growl, bark, and bolt toward the slightest movement out of the ordinary.

In a see-through, lacey nightdress, which covers… well, not much, I stand under the noisy smoke alarm in the kitchen, waving a cloth. The idea was to prepare breakfast for Dante, but it backfired fast. He was sound asleep while I tossed and turned in bed for an hour before I decided to surprise him with scrambled eggs. Unfortunately, my culinary skills are sound asleep, just like Dante. With the grace of a proverbial bull in a China shop, I turned the kitchen into Hell’s Kitchen.

Gordon wouldn’t approve.

Not only have I made a mess, but I also forgot to whisk the eggs. They burned, and black smoke triggered the alarm—an awfully sensitive, far too loud thingamajig.

The front door bangs against the wall, stopping me dead in my tracks. A second passes, and the sound of footsteps suddenly comes from not one but two directions: the corridor and the stairs. I tug the lacey fabric, covering my butt as much as the short nightdress allows. Unfortunately, despite the effort, I still show much more skin than Dante’s men should see. Too bad I didn’t think about modesty before entering the kitchen, ready to cook breakfast dressed like Victoria’s Secret model.

Jackson stops in the doorway, eyes sweeping the room. Once his gaze falls on me, he stumbles back, face bright red, eyes flying to the floor, the ceiling, and back to me in a frantic, uncoordinated way. I think this must be the very first time I’ve had the doubtful pleasure of seeing a man blush.

He turns to the front door, holding his hand out to halt whoever else is approaching. “It’s fine. She just burned the eggs. Turn off the alarm.”

Taking advantage of a moment of his inattention, I scout the kitchen in search of an apron or a large cutting board, but short of hiding in one of the cupboards, there’s not much I can cover myself with. For the lack of better options, I unfold the cloth, holding it to my chest. The shrill beeping of the alarm dies away, leaving an unpleasant ringing in my ears.

Dante joins Jackson in the doorway, stormy, green eyes on me, hands clenched into tight fists at his sides. “Get out,” he snaps at Jackson, staring at the back of his skull until the front door closes with a click.

With the cloth firmly against my chest, I feel both the warmth of my cheeks and Dante’s burning gaze.

“What are you doing?” His voice drips with unrestrained annoyance, jaw locked tight to stop an outburst.

I pull at the corner of the cloth, squirming. “I’m sorry, I tried to make you breakfast but burned the eggs.”

“And you’re burning the toast too.”

I ditch the idea of modesty, slapping the cloth on the island as I rush to save the toast. It’s beyond saving, though. I turn the toaster off, throwing away the charred bread.

Dante crosses the room, his bare feet tapping on the tiles. He grips my waist and hauls me off the floor and onto the kitchen island, the marble counter cold under my butt. “Both mine and Julij’s people are part of the security detail, Layla. All know the access code. Any one of them can walk in here at any time. Don’t parade around the house in your underwear.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”

He hangs his head low for a moment to suck in a deep breath. When he glances back into my eyes, there’s no sign of nerves. He looks better than yesterday after we arrived back from Texas. Despite Rookie taking the wheel, Dante didn’t sleep. He spent the ride in the back, cuddling me to his chest like a little girl, kissing my head as he encouraged me to sleep. The warmth of his body, the familiarity of his scent, and the calm rhythm of his heart I felt under my fingertips helped me doze off. Not for long… whenever I fell asleep, the car crash replayed in my dreams, waking me up drenched in sweat.

Dante leans closer, tracing his lips along my neck. Pajama pants hang low on his hips, and he smells of me, thanks to sleeping with my limbs wrapped around him as if he were a tree and I were poison ivy. “Don’t do it again.”

“You mean, don’t cook?”

Amusement dances on his handsome, rested face when he straightens up. “That too. Also, don’t leave the bed without permission and don’t show this body to anyone who isn’t me. Understood?” Satisfied with my energetic nodding, he returns to the previous task, nipping the skin in the crook of my neck. “Good girl.”

We’ve spent most of our time in bed since we arrived back home, but I’m still thirsty for him. I can’t get enough of his closeness, warmth, and smell. The roughness of his calloused hands worshiping my body. The barked orders, filthy, mesmerizing words, and the bombs detonating in my body every time an orgasm hits. I love feeling his lips on my collarbones, shoulders, and the nape of my neck.

He pauses to check the time on his wristwatch.

“Are you expecting someone?”

“Carlton will be here in an hour to check you over and the maid is due any minute.” He slides my nightdress off my non-injured shoulder. “Come on, baby, we’ll take a shower.”

“Subtle.” I wrap my legs around his middle, urging him to carry me upstairs. A minute of jumping under the smoke detector didn’t do my stitches any favors.

“Too subtle for you? Fine.” He bites my earlobe. “I want to be inside you right now. In your mouth first, so you better be on your knees for me in the next thirty seconds. Then, I want to watch the water drip down your naked body, and I want you to scream this fucking house down when you come.”

Check, check, and check… twice.

Forty minutes later, I stand in front of the closet, my legs weak. The intense orgasm from ten minutes ago lingers in the base of my spine. I wore nothing other than the nightdress or lingerie for the last twenty-four hours. I dug out both from my suitcase that Jean kindly packed and delivered to the hotel before we set off from Dallas. Now, I stand in the walk-in closet, scrunching my nose because I don’t recognize the clothes hanging neatly alongside Dante’s shirts. They’re new, and none of my old clothes are here. The question about the whereabouts of my old clothes lingers on the tip of my tongue, but I decide not to ask. The answer is obvious. I’m not sure if I can stomach hearing Dante tell me he threw them away because he wanted nothing to do with me.

“When did you have time to go shopping?” I ask instead, reaching for a plain, straight-neck white dress so Carlton can easily access my dressings. I grab a long olive-green cardigan to keep warm too.

Dante sits on the bed, strapping on the wristwatch I gifted him for Christmas. Droplets of water fall from his hair to the white, long-sleeve jersey he wears. Strong, woodsy cologne hangs in the air, indulging my obsession with the masterpiece of a man before me. In Dante’s world, wearing anything other than a suit is a rarity. Sometimes he wears sweats and a t-shirt when we’re alone, but ninety percent of the time, he favors his suits. Now that he’s in a white jersey and a pair of black jeans, I can’t peel my eyes off how perfectly the jersey hugs his hard, chiseled pecks and broad arms. The dress-down look doesn’t belittle the authority and power he emanates; it fails to decimate the aura of ruthlessness. It’s visible in his eyes and how he carries himself with undeniable confidence.

“I sent Grace shopping when we were in Dallas.”

“Grace?” I twirl around. “Who’s Grace?”

A satisfied smirk is his first response. “Hide your claws, Star. She’s our new maid. Marie quit.”

“Where was this Grace yesterday?” My eyes narrow into slits as he strides across the room to help me slip into my cardigan. “And why did Marie quit?”

Dante shrugs, ever so casual, spins me around, and brushes my hair away to kiss the nape of my neck. He snakes his hands around my chest, rests his forehead on the back of my head, and exhales slowly, making the hair on the back of my neck stand. “Why are you afraid of me, Layla?” His hold on me tightens. “Have I scared you? What did I do?”

I swallow the lump in my throat that lodged in there, like swallowing too big of a bite. “I’m not afraid of you. Where did you get that idea?”

“Don’t lie.” He spins me back around. Annoyance tugs at the corners of his eyes. “You were afraid at the hospital. You were afraid at the hotel, and you fucking flinched earlier when I found you in the kitchen.”

I wriggle out of his embrace and sit on the bed, my heart pounding against my sore ribs. The time has come to talk, explain, and leave the past where it belongs. I’m entirely unprepared for this conversation but aware it has to happen.

“You no longer disagree with everything I say, baby. You don’t talk back. You haven’t even rolled your eyes at me yet. You didn’t complain when I told you to sleep in that see-through nightdress.” He sits beside me and pulls me into his lap as if sitting side-by-side isn’t close enough. “You’re afraid of me, but I don’t understand why. It’s  driving me crazy, Layla.”

My eyes dart to the cream carpet and stay there while I search for the right words, untangling the web of thoughts to explain my reactions the best I can. “I’m not afraid of you,” I say quietly. Dante curls his fingers under my chin, so I’ll look him in the eyes. “I’m just scared to be without you. I’m afraid I’ll do something that will push you away, even by accident.”

“I won’t put you out the door because you burned the toast. Not because of that and not because of anything else. Not now and not ever.”

I knot my fingers behind his neck, plastering my cheek against his shoulder. “Don’t be mad, just… give me some time so I can learn to live with what I’ve done.”

His muscles harden under my touch on cue. Neither of us wants to revisit what happened in the warehouse, but we can’t pretend that night never happened. This conversation is inevitable. We have to work through the mess if we want to come out on the other side. With the weight of my betrayal hanging over our heads, we won’t ever move forward unless we confront the subject.

He slides me off his lap and stands, taking a few hard steps toward the French doors that open onto the balcony overlooking Lake Michigan. He’s tense. His muscles bunch under the thin fabric of his jersey with every breath he takes. My hands grow cold, stomach ties itself into a double knot.

Maybe he has a point. I am afraid of him a little. Of his reaction, words, and rejection.

“I won’t tell you that nothing changed. Or that it didn’t hurt when I realized you used me,” he says, looking out the window, his back to me. “I tried hard to leave you behind and pretend that you didn’t fucking exist. That you were never here with me. I tried to convince myself that you belong in the past and I should leave you there because you don’t deserve me or my forgiveness.”

His words hit like sharp pins stuck in a Voodoo doll resembling me in scary detail. I don’t blame him for feeling that way or speaking the truth, even if his words hurt more than I could admit aloud. He doesn’t hate me, and that shows me how pure are his feelings, but… why is there always a but?

Because life isn’t a bed of roses. It’s not made out of only good moments. Life is hard, uncompromising, and amazing at the same time. And love? Love isn’t perfect. If anything, it’s a far cry from perfect, but no matter how bad things get, how dark and turbulent, the sun always rises again.

This conversation needs to happen if we are to ever move on. Still, every sentence slipping out of his mouth is a hard slap across my face. A well-deserved slap.

“I couldn’t do it.” He turns to face me. “I physically can’t hate you, Star. You demolished my moral framework, turned my world on its head, and highjacked every one of my thoughts when you walked into Delta. You knocked me out of my comfort zone. You tore apart everything I thought I knew about myself, and you built me back up, changing my outlook on life and changing my focus point. Since then, everything revolves around you, baby.” He speaks slowly as if such a blatant manifestation of feelings doesn’t come naturally to him. I’m sure it doesn’t. Dante’s thrifty with words. He’s a man of action, better at showing than telling. Now, not only do I hear how much he loves me, but I also get to see it in his eyes. “I don’t want you to be afraid of me or that I’ll tell you to leave.”

I’m ashamed that the need to earn Frank’s acceptance remained my priority for so long. Until the very end, I was ready to kill the only person who loved me selflessly. “Turn the tables. Wouldn’t you worry? I lied for months.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it does!” I hide my face in my hands, suddenly powerless. All-out furious. His forgiveness is what I’d hoped for, but the way he’s brushing off what happened is not. Not in the slightest. I don’t think he really understands my reasons. I don’t think he’s dealt with my deceit. It’s not just Frank’s plan that turned Dante’s world on its head. Everything that happened since is an extension, a line of consequences to a decision I made almost a year ago. Like an avalanche, that decision packs more problems to this day. The bounty on my head, Dante’s issues with the FBI, CIA, DEA, and whoever else is involved, the fire at Delta, millions he spent and will spend to keep me safe: it all adds to my sin, blowing a small yes, Daddy, I’ll help you to apocalyptic proportions.

We can’t go on like this. Dante can’t keep brushing the issue under the carpet, pretending it never happened. I’ll forever worry that it’ll resurface and we’ll fall apart.

“Don’t ignore it. Don’t pretend it wasn’t that big of a deal.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t. You stabbed me in the back, Layla. It was a big deal. It fucking is a big deal, but that doesn’t mean you’re right in what you’re thinking and believe me, I know exactly what’s going on in your head. You’re wrong. I don’t need to hem and haw the subject over again to accept, forgive, and forget. Everyone makes mistakes. I know why you made yours. I’ve accepted what happened, and you should stop beating yourself up. It’s in the past.”

I shake my head firmly, earning a frown from Dante, who seems to be growing aggravated in sync with me. “I have to explain. You need to know why I agreed to help Frank and why I didn’t tell you when I realized I love you.”

“I know why you agreed.” He rests his back against a brand-new dressing table, arms folded tightly over his chest. “You told me you were never loved or cared for. You told me how much you wanted Frank’s attention. I pieced the rest together. I also know that if you weren’t afraid of my reaction, you would’ve told me about it very early on.” His green eyes bore into mine, looking right through me, peeling the layers protecting my mind to sift through the darkest recesses of my being. “And we’re back at the drawing board again. You’re afraid of me. You were afraid for a long time… I guess you just hid it better before.”

A bitter scoff leaves my lips, forcing Dante into defense mode. His hands ball into fists at his sides, his patience hanging by a thread. I can tell. I know him well enough now to decipher his body language. The way his jaw ticks on both sides under his ears is a clear sign he’s moments away from snapping.

At least we’re getting somewhere.

The hint of accusation prickling his voice is exactly what I’m after. We both need to shout a little, place the blame, let go of animosities, and draw a clear line between the past and the present, or the repressed emotions will backfire like Tayler’s faulty engine at the least convenient moment.

“I’m not a good actress. You saw what you wanted to see,” I say, blame dripping from the tone of my voice like blood drips from a wound. “A pretty face, a damaged mind, a scared, scarred, innocent girl in need of attention. A virgin…”

Dante’s jaw works in furious circles. He grips the dressing table with both hands, his knuckles white with the effort as if he’s ready to rip the top off. I’m hitting all the right spots, but as always, when dealing with me, he’s calm and in control.

“Don’t do this, Layla. Don’t fucking push me.”

It’s too late. The atmosphere’s already shifted. An argument hangs in the air, brewing overhead like the foulest of storms, threatening to unleash its full power. And it will be glorious. We’re both basic elements, forces of nature. Fire and water. Air and earth. Opposites attract, but they clash equally well.

Right now, Dante’s a grenade without the safety pin. The clock is ticking. Every one of my words brings the countdown closer to a spectacular explosion. I’m afraid to be on the receiving side of his fury, but I’d rather have the blast now than wait for it for years.

“A tool to get back at my father,” I continue, steadfast in my attempt to force him to show me what he’s made of. “You liked showing me off any chance you got. Rubbing me in Frankie’s face like a trophy, feeling like you were winning.”

Dante pushes away from the dressing table, halting my rant. He’s pulse-pounding as he towers above me, a bottomless pit of cataclysmic consequences, a spectacular supernova of anger on the brink of eruption.

But nothing happens. The next thing I know, he flies out of the room and doesn’t even slam the door.

“Don’t ignore me!” I rush out of the bedroom, following in his footsteps. “Stop acting like you’re okay with this because I can see you’re not. “Say what needs to be said so we can move on!” I grab his arm, halting him at the bottom of the stairs. “Don’t pretend it didn’t happen!” I claw at his arm when he turns to face me. “Tell me I hurt you. Tell me you don’t trust me. Tell me I don’t deserve you. Tell me something. Anything. Don’t act like you don’t care! Scream, for fuck’s sake! Do—”

“Shut the fuck up!” He booms, the bass of his voice reverberating in the house like a clap of thunder. He cuffs my wrist in one hand, tugging hard to force me down a step into his arms. “First of all, don’t ever curse again. It doesn’t fucking suit you. You’re too sweet. Too delicate for fucks.” He’s not shouting. There’s no need. The low, threatening undertone to his husky voice conveys his emotions clearly. “Do you think your betrayal means anything in the face of what’s happened since? It doesn’t fucking matter. You chose me.”

He catches my lips in a forceful, brutal kiss, fighting his way inside. His tongue skims along with mine, distracting the nest of cobras hissing in my head for a few seconds.

“Listen to me now,” he clips, inching away. “I’ll say it once, and as it befits your beautiful mind, I expect you to accept it. For two weeks, you weren’t mine. The very awareness you weren’t, drove me halfway to the fucking grave. I can’t and won’t let you leave me again. Never. You’re mine. You belong to me. You belong with me. Now and always. Understood?”

There’s something about the way he speaks that has me swell inside. He makes the confession sound like the most natural and obvious thing in the world. I am his, and I’m always supposed to be his.

“You killed your father because you love me. Now I’ll kill anyone who’ll try to hurt you because I love you.”

My mouth turns dry, and my lips fall apart. Three simple words, powerful enough to squeeze the breath out of my lungs. I can count on one hand how many times I’ve heard those words in my life. I’m sure Dante is the first one who means what he says. I knew he loved me. I’ve felt it for a long time but knowing, and hearing are two different things.

“Again,” I breathe, my mouth twisted into a smile. “Please.”

“Don’t pretend you didn’t know. You accused me of loving you some time ago.”

“Of course, I knew. You did a half-ass job of hiding it.”

“I wasn’t trying to hide it.”

An innocent smile covers my face, the anger I felt three minutes ago no longer there. “Say you love me, please.”

“I love you, baby. I love you so fucking much. I want my feisty, sassy, annoying star back. I’ve got something for her.” He drags me back upstairs and sits me on the bed, walking away toward the nightstand behind my back.

The familiar sound of a gun being tucked into a holster reaches my ear, prompting a frown on my forehead. A gun? He wants me to carry a gun.

He comes to stand in front of me, runs his fingers through the artistic muddle of his dark hair, and crouches down, placing one hand to cup my knee. He holds the other one open.

A small, black box sits on top of his palm, and the lid is up, revealing a ring with a diamond the size of a pea.

“You already have one, but this is the engagement one.”

Dante presses his cheek against my temple. “It’s not what you think,” he says, amused. “I mean, yes, it’s a ring, but not an engagement ring.”

And I’m not sure if I’m relieved or if my heart finally broke.

I’m full of joy, pride, excitement, and love this time. More than I can handle. More than Dante could hope to accept. I look from the ring to his handsome, content face. No hint of uncertainty in his eyes. He’s confident in that sexy, arrogant manner of his. He didn’t ask the question, but he didn’t have to.

I’m his… now and always.

And I’m about to throw myself into his arms when one potential explanation for the sudden, extraordinary proposal springs to mind. “Clever.” I take the ring out of the box. Regardless of the reason, it’s mine. It’ll look pretty on my finger, shimmering as it catches the daylight pouring inside the room through the windows. “You don’t touch the boss’s wife, correct? You hope at least those who respect the unwritten rule will refrain from hunting me down if I marry you?”

“If?” He smirks and stamps a kiss on my forehead. “You don’t have a choice. You know you’re too smart for your own good? The idea didn’t cross my mind, but it sure isn’t stupid. Few bosses respect the rule, especially when big money is concerned, but I know some who do.” He stands, pulling me up with him. “The ring is yours because you’re supposed to be Mrs. Carrow, not Miss Harston. I hate your surname.”

“I will be Mrs. Carrow, but only after the hit is closed.”