He didn’t have a mother anymore.
He craved silence. Emptiness. Every muscle ached and burned, but he managed to crawl across the floor, looking for something, anything, looking for a sign.
The light glittered on the blade of the knife.
Slow, painful inches until he reached for it. His hand shook as he grasped it between his fingers. His head roared with agony, rage, pain so raw and encompassing that Vincent knew already his sanity had snapped, oozed out of him with the men and their rough hands and fingers and filthy bodies.
He would never be clean again.
He lifted the knife and turned his wrists over.
Began to cut. Over and over.
When the blood ran rich and red, peace finally came.
Vincent Soldano lay back on the floor and waited to die.
He was fourteen years old.
Twenty-seven
WOLFE LEAPED OUT of bed, the scream trapped in his lungs. Sweat ran in rivulets down his body, and he quickly grasped his wrists, feeling the leather bands protecting, blocking out the memory. He dragged in a breath, used to the routine, and tried to calm his pounding heart.
Leaning over, he placed his hands on his knees and fought back the nausea. It had been a while since the scene had replayed so vividly in his head. Sure, the nightmares came regularly, but like a longtime enemy, they’d learned to live with each other. Sometimes he slept. Sometimes not. The deal and pact with the devil had been made years ago. When the devil came to visit, he went to the gym and pounded out the rest of the memories.
His head exploded with the images of years past. The knife. The men. The horror. The cowardice.
Out. He had to get out.
Shutting down to survival mode, Wolfe pulled on a pair of shorts, grabbed his sneakers, and left.
Down the stairs.
Through the hall.
More stairs.
Click on the light. The room lit up, a haven from the night, a place Sawyer had built for both of them when the demons visited.
The workout room had soundproof walls, a kick-ass speaker system, and every piece of equipment imaginable. He donned his gloves and went straight to the punching bag. Free weights were scattered across the concrete floors, and mats hung haphazardly. A chin-up bar, rowing machine, and endless instruments of torture and healing lay before him, offering a glimpse back into the regular world.
He hit the button on the speaker and KISS came pounding out in waves of hard-ass metal.
Yep. Sawyer had been in here recently.
Wolfe got to work.
WHERE WAS HE GOING?
Gen lay awake in the dark and listened as someone walked down the stairs. Came from Wolfe’s end of the hallway. She should lie here and try to go back to sleep. He’d been quite vocal in his determination to put her back in the friendship box, even after their incredible night of sex and orgasms and tenderness. He refused to even look at her now, choosing to engage in ridiculous conversation, duck his head, and keep far away from her in case she jumped him.
Which she had wanted to do. Plus beat him. But she kept her dignity and tried to remember Arilyn’s advice. Live in the moment. Don’t analyze or question. Let the day guide the relationship. Don’t pressure.
Arilyn’s advice really sucked.
Screw it. She’d follow him. Gen already knew he suffered from regular nightmares. Sometimes she’d wake to use the bathroom and find a tangle of empty sheets on the couch where he slept. She knew he liked to hit the gym or go running, but when she tried questioning him more about the nightmares, he shut back down again.
She padded on bare feet and tried to follow the trail. It took a few times and checking various rooms in the mansion before she finally found another door that led down a staircase. The knob turned easily in her fingers.
She stepped in.
The bold sounds of heavy-metal music, rough and angry, screamed through the speakers. The room was full of gym equipment, but there was only one focal point as she shut the door behind her.
Wolfe.
He stood in the center of the room. A large punching bag swung from a chain. He wore boxing gloves and the leather wristbands. Sneakers on his feet. Bare chested.
She sucked in her breath.
He was beautiful. Raw. His fists moved in a blur of pounding, attacking the bag over and over, sharp jabs, wicked lefts, feet planted as he beat the crap out of something imaginary, something that had broken him and changed him forever. His hips rotated with each punch, highlighting eight-pack abs. The serpent gleamed with sweat, twisting over his body like a friend and confidant.
Liquid dripped from his hair, brows, sliding down his chest. His eyes were dark slits, concentrated on another time, hate and fury whipping around him in waves. She stood completely still, not daring to breathe, her gaze clinging to the mass of rock-hard muscles, bulging biceps, powerful thighs. His body was like a well-trained beast, smooth and golden and strong, and the wanting slammed through her, causing a moan to vibrate from her chest. Heat spread in her veins and her pussy grew wet and ready.
Gen had no idea how long she watched him or when he finally realized she was in the room. With a vicious kick, the bag swung and surrendered to his brutality, and his head turned.
Their gazes clashed. Locked.
Time stopped.
His breath came out in short bursts. Never breaking the connection, a fierce hunger and rage gleamed in those blue eyes, and for the first time, Gen was afraid.
He was uncivilized. She’d entered a place he blocked others from visiting. Gen glimpsed the dark beast lurking behind the barriers, but Wolfe kept it chained, deep in the dungeon, not fit for human contact. Right now, as she looked at him, she realized she had just entered hell.
“You need to get out.” His jaw clenched, and he practically hissed out the words. The serpent seemed to be whispering the commands in his ear. “Now.”