Hold You Against Me (Stripped #4)

“You’d be taking mercy on him. He’s in pain.”


“You’re a monster,” I breathe. For doing this to him, for doing it to me. I don’t care what excuse he has. I don’t even care if the man really did come for me. This is wrong. It has to be wrong, because I don’t know how to reconcile this—and I’m terrified that this place has changed me too.

That I’m a monster, too.

He presses the gun into my hand, almost tender, sympathy a hard light in his eyes. “Do it, bella. Put him out of his misery.”

The man collapses into a moaning heap, perhaps finally understanding that he’s fucked no matter what choice I make. The sounds coming from him aren’t even human really. Pure animal instinct.

There’s no help for him.

I point the gun at his head. It would be a mercy; I know that. He’s going to die fast or die slow. That’s the choice you face when you are born into the life. I should pull the trigger.

My hands shake so hard I can see the gun moving. There’s no way I’ll hit anything.

Reaching deep inside myself, I find some untapped strength. With a fresh surge of rebellion I swing the gun to point at Giovanni. My hands still shake, tears blurring my vision.

“That’s right,” he says, his voice rich with approval. “Pull the trigger. Stop me, bella.”

I have this sick feeling that he actually wants me to, that some part of him loves me enough to want himself stopped—while the other part is evil enough to keep going. “I’ll do it,” I warn. “I’ll kill every one of you.”

“You might be able to do it,” he says, musing and casual. “Take the west gate. There are keys in Alfredo’s pocket. Head to Tanglewood and don’t look back.”

He really does want me to, I realize numbly. But I can’t. I’m more terrified of being a monster than I am of dying. Let him hurt me. Let him kill me. My hands fall to my side.

With a low murmur in Italian, he comes to me.

His hands are gentle as he takes the gun. With his other hand, he draws me close to him. I bury my face in his rumpled tux, hurting enough to take comfort wherever I can find it. And God, his broad chest, his warmth, the spice of him piercing the blood in the air—it does comfort me. He holds me tight, as if he can ward away any demons, even himself.

I feel the slight sway of his body as his hand rises. Then the crack of a gunshot.

The moaning stops.

I press my face deeper into him. I don’t want to look. Can’t.

He was the one to show mercy after all.





Chapter Eighteen





I wake as if from a nightmare, my blood still racing from the fear, dark images flashing through my mind. Except it isn’t a dream. The blood and grass staining my gold glitter dress prove that. That had really happened last night. And this morning…

This morning I’ll get married.

Glitter rainbow stickers frame my face in the vanity mirror. It feels like a lifetime ago that I decorated everything with color and flash, childlike enthusiasm laced with a burgeoning femininity. A lifetime ago, but what’s really changed? I’m back where I started, living the life I was born to.

Back then my only purpose was to marry a strong Italian man and make strong Italian babies. It was a fate I fought and escaped, only to end up right back here. I was never one to believe in destiny, but I can’t deny its power as I contemplate the expanse of white fabric draped over the bed.

Two hours later, my makeup and hair are finished, my corset and stockings in place.

The only thing left is the dress.

The gown is couture, of course. Very expensive, with a slender wrapped bodice and artful ruches in the wide skirt. There’s something both architectural and delicate about the design, a contradiction that only enhances the allure.

It’s a fairy-tale dress, but I know better than to believe in that.

There will be no white knight swooping in to save me today.

There’s a small knock on the door. “Come in,” I say absently, expecting Maria.

Instead Juliette wears a gorgeous silver sheathe and a hesitant smile. Romero stands at his usual post, holding the door open for her. He’s been pretty pissy with me after last night, but now he’s busy looking at Juliette with lust—and maybe a little bit of longing.

She pulls me into a hug. “Oh, Clara. You look beautiful. Radiant.”

“Now I know you’re lying,” I say drily. “Considering I slept all of two hours last night.”

Her expression is sympathetic. “Nervous?”

“Something like that.” I decide to skip the retelling of last night. I’m not even sure I can get the words out. And if I start crying, I’ll ruin the amazing eye makeup that Maria did. You can barely tell my eyes are puffy.

Skye Warren's books