Sasha
The ornate bathroom door closed behind me with a dull thud, sealing me into the cavernous silence. For a fleeting moment, the weight of Luca's dismissal threatened to crumble the icy veneer I'd so carefully constructed.
Cursing the tremor that betrayed my clenched fists, I pivoted and leaned back against the door. Each shuddering inhalation fueled the wrath simmering in my veins—a caustic mixture of indignation and self-loathing that scalded my senses with recrimination.
Stupid girl. You knew better than to venture into that viper's nest unprepared.
The scathing reprimand echoed through my mind in a tone that sounded unsettlingly like Evgeni's harsh cadence. Cold. Mocking. Utterly devoid of mercy or kindness.
But it was the truth, wasn't it? For all my grandiose delusions of having tamed the monster lurking behind Luca's brutal countenance, I'd been the one thoroughly ensnared. A moth, drawn inexorably toward the flames of his ruthless magnetism until the siren call singed my wings and left me plummeting.
Gritting my teeth, I shoved aside the phantom sensation of his hands roving the curves of my body with that same lethal intensity. The recollection of how thoroughly he'd stripped away every last vestige of composure until I'd been reduced to a whimpering, wanton creature at his mercy.
It had been a mistake—a lapse of judgment more grievous than any failure or misstep in my tenuous existence. Because in that heated crucible of torrid abandon, I'd relinquished the ultimate leverage.
Control.
The cool marble beneath my bare feet was a shock against my heated soles as I pushed away from the door and prowled toward the glass-walled shower enclosure. A shuddering inhalation rasped between my gritted teeth, and I squeezed my eyes shut against the traitorous sting of tears that threatened.
Get a grip. This is precisely why attachments are a liability you can never afford.
The words conjured Evgeni's ghost with such visceral clarity that I could almost scent the lingering smoke and vodka mingling with his favored bergamot cologne. Could envision the disdainful sneer that would've twisted his craggy features at my bout of weakness.
He'd been right about so many things—the delicate debutante I'd been upon our first ill-fated encounter had been eroded by years under his merciless tutelage. Stripped of every sentimental indulgence and whittled into a weapon as brutally honed as the knives and blades I mastered with such lethal precision.
And that was the heart of my failing, wasn't it? That in pursuit of some misguided sense of vindication, some deluded belief that seducing Luca's cold brilliance into warm surrender would be the ultimate conquest, I'd forgotten my training. Had reverted to the pampered, self-indulgent girl whose only ambition had been to bask in gilded frivolities.
With a sweep of composure falling over me like an ancestral mantle, I arched a single brow at my reflection in the steamed glass. No more games. No more impulsive dalliances or ill-conceived manipulations.
From here on out, I would banish every trace of Luca Cavalieri's intoxicating existence from my psyche. Would purge the lingering scent of his skin from my senses and lock away the recollection of how he'd made me feel transcendently alive in a way I'd never experienced.
Because sentiment was a liability I could no longer indulge. Not without jeopardizing everything.
The steam began to cloud the glass as the shower heated up, obscuring my reflection in a veil of condensation. Grasping the slick marble countertop for leverage, I stepped into the scalding spray, embracing the near-searing torrent as baptismal penance.
Let it purge every last remnant of weakness from my marrow until only hardened resolve remains.
The thought was a mantra, each repetition serving as a bulwark against the creep of self-doubt and crippling sentiment. With ruthless efficiency, I lathered and scoured away every lingering vestige of Luca's masculine musk from my traitorous flesh. Erased the invisible brand his calloused palms had seared into the sleek curves and valleys of my body.
By the time the deluge had shifted from scalding to tepid, my skin was irritated and raw—a punitive reminder of my folly to match the tumult still churning in my soul. But at least the oppressive scent clinging to my senses had dissipated, chased away by the stinging torrent and fragrant cloudbursts of bergamot and black orchid.
Sightless in the dense vapor, I twisted the taps until the spray tapered into an insistent drip. Rivulets trickled down my face and torso, the rapid thrum of each droplet reverberating like a metronome marking the ruthless cadence of my pulse. Grounding me in the merciless reality of who and what I was.
Not the brittle, spoiled princess who'd fled her gilded cage at the first beguiling brush of a predator's touch. But a weapon without equal—a scalpel honed to such surgical precision that even the slightest quiver of imprecision would dull the exacting edge.
Stepping from the shower's glass confines, I trailed glistening footprints across the marble tiles, uncaring the puddles left in my wake. Because in that interminable heartbeat of centering serenity, I understood with piercing clarity what had to be done.
Cinching the plush towel around my torso, I pivoted toward the carved double doors and the bedroom beyond with the same leonine grace that had first ensnared Luca so utterly. My damp hair trailed rivulets down the slope of my spine as unhurried footfalls carried me back into the dragon's den—this time without an ounce of trepidation thrumming through my veins.
Only the serene promise of the kill awaits the perfect strike.
The deafening silence that flooded my senses should've been my first warning that the suite's solitary occupant had relocated. But the yawning emptiness registered as little more than a fleeting whisper against my consciousness as I stalked through the grandiose space.
No, what commanded the whole of my focus was the debris scattered across the ornate coverlet—the crisp Italian linens disheveled and stained with dark, viscous splotches and scattered remnants of glass and porcelain. Momentary confusion dimmed my carefully cultivated poise until the realization blossomed with all the devastating finality of a mortal blow.
Luca was gone—had lashed out in a bout of cold fury and departed with all the mercurial unpredictability I should've anticipated.
Abandoning all pretense of composure, I lunged for my abandoned attire, frantically shrugging into the wrinkled garments with jerky, haphazard movements. Because in that instant of vacant, dispassionate clarity, I understood that this was no mere tantrum or arrogant power play.
No, this grisly tableau was nothing short of a declaration of war.
One that would require every ounce of my lethality to survive.