Chapter 4

"You appear to be Odette Davenport" Nico replied his hands still fixed on hers. "Now answer me. How excertly did you end my brother's life." He growled.

She shook her head, her lips trembling. "I— I—did—not do it." She breathed.

Nico turned away from her, pacing, his fingers clenching and unclenching at his sides

He stared blindly at the wall, then ran a hand over his hair.

The words did not soothe him, more so.

They fueled him.

She looked… afraid.

And that only cinched more suspicion around his ribcage.

He had recited Giancarlo's words a dozen times at least by now, and yet they still sounded very much unreal.

"Scratches Nico. On his torso. Deep. Defensive. And a stab wound— on the lower abdomen."

"The bullets came after."

"Your brother wasn't just shot. The shots came afterwards. Salvatore was stabbed first—possibly even killed that way."

"There had been signs of intimacy too. I noticed it when I was doing the preliminary exam on Salvatore's body, moments before he died."

"She was the last person with him. The evidence points to her."

"The killer has marks. I’d bet my life your brother's wife does."

A sharp, hollow ache pricked behind his ribs.

If they had been intimate before he died, along with everything else that had occurred regarding them being together, it should raise more than just questions.

Yes but why does it hurt why does it kill him from the inside.

His eyes returned to her, covered in a white nightgown that was soft and fit exquisitely to her moist skin, and, that too-soft neckline showing just enough to torment him.

Salvatore was the last person who he wished to picture in his head, but imagining her fondling Salvatore, turned out to be something impossible to get out of.

Even imagining laterally associating him with Salvatore hands on her, between her legs.

Salvatore inside her.

His chest ached. It was simple enough to picture and he wanted to thrust the image from his mind, to rip it out by the roots, yet it stayed consumed in the back of his mind taunting him.

He had no right to feel it.

But God help him, the pain that seeped through his chest, the shame. And sorrow. And that sick, twisting desire to know if any of it was true. Was way more deafening.

He wanted to believe that it was not resentment truly. That it was horror. That it was anger for his brother's death. That it was a quest for truth.

But it was not, and It infuriated him.

Infuriated that even now, he feels jealous.

A vile, possessive kind that made him hate both of them, and himself for having lost her to his brother.

Which was already torture enough.

He wanted to somehow hurt her for it in kind.

However he did not know why.

He went back to the desk layed out the photograph. Then held one up to her.

"Tell me this."

Odette stared at the photo, color draining from her face.

"Where did you get this?"

"There are plenty more where that is from, Odette." His voice dropped, his tone baffled.

"Did you do it?"

She said nothing.

Not a single godforsaken word, which drove him mad.

Because if she had just spoken.

Just said something like—

'He struck me.'

'He attempted to hurt me.'

'He wasn't what you think.'

Even a lie would have been better than this glassy-eyed, vacant stillness.

His jaw tightened. His fists flexed at his sides.

There were too many thoughts swirling through his head he couldn't separate one.

Perhaps it was in self-defense.

Perhaps Salvatore had pushed her too far.

Perhaps she'd tried to get away and he wouldn't let her.

Perhaps he'd hurt her worse than anyone suspected…

But no.

No. Salvatore was cruel. Remote. Cold like their father.

But Violent? No.

Not to her. Not Odette.

Even so. Nico had been gone five years. What did he really know?

His chest ached from it. He caught himself fighting between rage and thorough reason.

He wished her innocent.

He wished Salvatore innocent.

But he knew—only one of them would be.

He moved in closer once more, towering over her. His words dropping lower.

"Does he hurt you, Odette?"

Her eyes flared.

Then she blinked. Her lips parting without words.

"Tell me." His voice lashed. "Did Salvatore hurt you?"

"I…" She paused. Her hands twisted in her lap.

"I… it wasn't like that."

"Wasn't like what?" he growled.

She locked her gaze with his, her eyes slightly wet.

"I didn't kill him."

"That's not what I asked."

She moved her eyes away from him.

Which only made the knot in his chest burn that much more.

Now because now he didn't know whom he was angrier at.

Her—for perhaps lying to him, for glancing back over at him with those wide, eyes and still not speaking.

Or Salvatore—for perhaps being the man Nico never truly knew. For possibly hurting her. For possibly touching her.

His throat squeezed.

He whirled away from her, not wanting to look at her one second longer without doing something he'd regret.

"Christ—Odette!"

The name tore from his lips, as though it pained him to say it.

He flung out of the room before he could do something worse. The door to the study crashed shut behind him, shaking in its frame.

He went down the corridor.

Down the stairs.

To the cellar.

He leaned forward to grab the glass that was closest to him and hurled it into the far wall of the room.

It shattered against the wall, exploding into crystal slivers.

Why could she not simply tell him?

Why could she not simply tell him what actually occurred that night?

She had been there. She had seen him last—he was certain of it.

He leaned hard against the table, his jaw hardening so tight.

She was keeping something back.

But one way or another he'd get it out of her. Pressing his palms hard into the table.

He moved. Back upstairs.

Two steps at a time.

The study door burst open, and there she still was, where he'd left her.

Still holding that white nightgown around her. Still standing beside the desk. Still looking at him with that haunted, wordless gaze that filled him with the urge to shake the truth out of her or pin her mouth to his—he couldn't choose which.

He reached for her, taking hold of her waist, her breath gasps in her throat as he swept her up onto the margin of the desk. The wood creaked in protest beneath the sudden weight.

She gasped.

His body was between her knees before she could move back, his hands planted on the desk behind her, holding her in place. He could now fully make out her shampoo, the faintest trace of jasmine. Lord. It infuriated him.

Infuriated that even now, his body seems to want to be close to hers and inhale more of her.

"I'll ask again," he growled,

"Did you kill him?"

She opened her mouth—but no words came out.

He reached up, brushing her hair aside from her neck, feeling for any Scratches. When he found nothing.

He caught her arm and brought it overhead. No bruises.

His hand shifted to her thigh. A small gasp left her lips at the contact.

Still nothing.

He grabbed the hem of her nightgown and began to raise it.

Her hands slid down, trying to stop him. "W—what are you doing Nico?" she breathed.

He gazed at her, mid-action, as he saw something spring to life behind her eyes.

Need.

Not fear. Not guilt.

Yearning.

She moved an inch too far—for someone with nothing to conceal. Her thighs touched between his in a manner that had nothing to do with modesty, and her lips parted as if she were about to say something—but never did.

Nico's blood went ice cold.

And fire.

God damn her.

She tightened the fabric of her nightdress in her fists, wincing quite clearly.

"I—l—didn't," she says, straining to speak, her throat tight.

If only she'd tell him—if only she'd tell him something— except I didn't, then perhaps he could pardon his own ache within him and, Perhaps he could talk himself into believing she'd murdered his brother in self-defense. Perhaps it would make sense.

"Don't lie to me," he whispered, his voice almost inaudible. "I have proof."

She looked confused—maybe genuinely, maybe feigned.

"What evidence?" she insisted, scowling. While her voice trembled.

Nico didn't answer right away. His eyes fell to the hem of her gown once again.

"Then you live me no choice Odette," he said quietly.

His reaction was immediate and spontaneous. She drew a breath as his hand moved to her thigh. Her skin was warm beneath his fingers, her body stiffening at the contact. She shifted again, as if unconsciously trying to hide herself from the spark that jumped between them both.

When his hand slid a bit further up, she laid her palms on his, stopping him.

"You—you—can't," she stammered, her voice barely a breath. Her cheeks flamming with colors and outmost embarrassment. "Please."

He pulled back—his watch caughting on the hem of her dress. The silk rent with the merest slide, loosened on her shoulder and dropping down far enough to expose the curve of her inner thigh, and just beneath, the hint of soft lace.

Everything in him stopped.

Everything.

Odette's eyes widened, a small cry rising in her throat. She crossed her legs sharply, tugging the fabric down with trembling hands.

Shame flammed her face.

And he—

He couldn't move.

His chest rose and fell while his throat hurt. His fists tightened at his sides.

What the devil was he doing?

This wasn't even anger anymore.

It was hunger.

He stepped back. Once. Twice. And the air he dragged into his lungs wasn't a help.

Her lips parted to speak, a comment perhaps, no doubt, but the door groaned behind them.

Both turned around in surprise.

One of the housekeepers stood frozen in the doorway.