5

Abel

I stared at Solana. At the way she sat up straight, her slender shoulders sharp, her eyes defiant black slits, her chin jutting upwards, and I recoiled, stunned.

I'd never seen anything like this. I'd never seen any woman quite like her.

Courageous. Strong. Defiant.

She would back down for no one. She would fight tooth and nail, and would always get what she wanted. Even if she was afraid. She would not give in to fear no matter what.

Up until today, I didn't know a single thing about her. I underestimated her — thinking she was one of those quiet ladies who was foolishly obedient to a fault, and had no willpower of their own. Who cowered at my father's commands, but silently resented him. But she proved that she was different. She didn't hide her resentment. She didn't let his cruelty — I'd heard the insensitive words he'd whispered about her father — weigh her down. She'd challenged him head on, not minding if it costed her life.

No one had ever bounced back to my father like that. No woman could conceive that thought. No man dared — the last man who tried it didn't get to breathe the very next second. My father strangled him to death. Right there, on the spot.

Sighing, I wiped the sweat that had thickened my brows. “Don't go against my father like that in public. Or even in private. He's very much more dangerous than you think. He'll crush you before you get the chance to raise your claws.”

“I'm not afraid of him. He's got a sour reputation, so what? No one gets their way all the damn time.” She huffed, rolling her eyes as though what I said was the dumbest thing she'd ever heard. The breeze whooshed over our faces, the streets becoming a blur as we drove down to the cemetery.

The wind shuffled her veil about, before throwing it over her face, letting her fierce blue eyes shine even brighter as she stared out the window, her chest heaving, her fists curled even while she folded her arms across her chest. Anger radiated off her in waves, dampening my spirits. Briefly, I recalled how those blue eyes had looked at me six years ago. How glassy they'd been with tears. The difference now was the tears had been replaced with a sizzling anger that had been brewing inside her for months.

She was stronger, bolder, and angry. I had to control her before she became even more wild. I had to show her that I was the stronger one.

I'd watched her interact with her sister from across the yard. Helen Williams. The girl I'd once been thrilled to get married to. The rebellious sister, and also the most devious. They had been stiff with each other, with Solana guarding her word, and Helen somewhat pleading and insisting. I expected them to be at least friendly with each other, because neither had seen each other for years, but it seemed like they both had a lot of issues to settle.

The day Solana signed the contract was the last day she had contact with any member of her family. Father sent her away to a private Catholic all-girls boarding school, hidden in the backdrop of Calabria. There she also had private tutoring, and was given everything she desired, as well as close supervision. Every step she took was reported back to me, as well as every decision, every calls, and every visitors. Shaken by guilt, her family members didn't visit her for once. Her father tried, but she refused to even take the grocery items and new wears he'd bought her as a means of atonement. She wrote to her mother once, but that was it.

I glanced at her, wondering if she felt regretful now for the way she'd treated her father. Even though she hated him, there had to be some good deeds he'd done which she'd loved him for in the past. Surely, grief was assured.

“I'm so sorry for your loss, believe me.”

Her shoulders became rigid, her eyes darting to me. Her face was expressionless, her voice clipped as she said. “Really?”

“I've lost a few loved ones as well, so trust me when I say I know how it feels.” I knew all about grief, alright. My sister, Vanessa, had been my best friend. The light of my life, I'd sworn to protect her and keep her safe from the world. It never occurred to me, not even in the cruel, dark, dangerous world we'd carved out for ourselves, that she die. Our mother had died while birthing her, and frankly, I never recalled her being a huge figure in my life just like Father.

She turned to me, lifting her hands to tuck and arrange her veil carefully, her movements graceful. She had that unbelievable, jaw-dropping beauty that set every man's pulse racing. When I'd first met her, six years ago, while she was sixteen, I wasn't moved a lot by her slender body and loosely curled hair and creepy braces, but now, her breasts had swelled, her curves were more defined, filling out her dress. Her facial features had sharpened, her high cheekbones were more defined, her lips full and rosy pink.

Hate swirling in her cerulean blue eyes like a fast-flowing river.

She sized me — slow, mocking — from head to toe, and back up again. When her eyes met mine, I swallowed, suddenly self-conscious. I had never been self-conscious about my appearance before because I knew I was the definition of hotness, but there was something about her stare that screamed inadequacy. That made me feel awkward and very much out of place.

Maybe it was the disgust I felt at myself for standing by and watching her get binded to me against both our wills. It had to be. I'd told myself so many times I had no say in the matter but I was done lying to myself.  I'd joined in humiliating her, so I owed her something. But what that thing was, I had no idea. An apology wouldn't be enough to erase what took place. It was a waste of time. Protection and love? I'd already swore to keep her satisfied in the contract, not minding the fact that she was the spoils of war. My father would lose his shit if he ever found out I felt guilty for what had happened. He'd loathe me more than he did now, and wouldn't hesitate to disown me.

I cursed fate for not letting him be the one to see the plea in her eyes. The helplessness. The anguish. But I doubted he'd be moved by it, even if he'd seen it. Norman Stravkos had a heart carved out of steel. Unfeeling. Unyielding. Dark. Hard steel.

It wouldn't soften by a rival's daughter's plea.

Nothing ever softened his heart. Nothing could. I could bet my entire inheritance that my father never had a conscience since birth.

Never.