THIRTY-TWO.

ALESSANDRO, AKA DON VALENTINO.

I sit in the corner of the room watching her sleep. I grip the armrests on the chair.

I told her I wouldn't leave, and that I'd wake her up if she started to scream for help.

I lied.

I won't be here shortly.

I plan to visit this Derek guy and give him a piece of my mind while my hands do all the talking.

Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my zip lighter, flip it open, and then shut it.

Rage consumes me, I need to occupy my hands before they tear this room apart.

And I don’t understand why.

I’d like to think I bear no soul. It's easier this way when I look down at my blood-stained hands after a hard night at work.

Ivy is my choice of poison. She is innocent. Beautiful and fucking divine to look at, even with that fucking hideous scar along her pelvis.

It does not affect how brightly she glows in my eyes. It only intensifies the blinding infatuation I have for her.

I desire her like nothing else.

Gods! I want to claim her and bind her to me forev