"What does it seem like I'm doing?" He arches a brow in derision.
The back of my legs hit the frame of the bed, and I realize I have nowhere else to go. In an attempt to stabilize myself, I put my hands up, resting them on his chest as I also try to stop his advance.
He looks down at the spot I'm touching him, his mouth curling up in disgust. His eyes flash in anger at me for a moment before he's back to his state of cynical amusement.
"What's wrong with you?" I suddenly burst out, done with his cryptic behavior and the undeserved hatred I see in his eyes.
His brows arch up before he bursts into laughter. It's not for long, though. Before I can understand what he means, his hand is wrapped around both my wrists as he holds me captive against him.
A shiver goes down my body at the contact, and I can't help the sliver of fear that courses through me at his expression.
"Let me go," I whisper, willing my voice to not betray the apprehension I feel inside.
"I have to give it to you," he chuckles. "You're one hell of an actress," he says and I frown, looking at him in confusion.
What is he talking about?
"Ah, there it goes. That little pinch between your brows that always appears when you want to feign ignorance," he smirks just as his other hand comes up to touch my face, his fingers settling on my forehead as he traces the ridge of my brows.
"What's wrong with you? My brother will come up any minute, and I doubt your business," I pause, scrunching my nose, since I don't know the particularities of their association, "will go as smoothly if he sees you manhandling his sister," I state proudly, lifting my chin up and looking him square in the eye.
"What if I tell him," he starts, lowering his head until his mouth is next to my ear, the warmth of his breath a contrast to the coldness of his words, "that his sister is a little sadist that gets off on others' pain?"
My eyelids flutter rapidly, his words only confusing me further.
"Wait," I say, pushing against his hand, "I don't know what you're talking about. I think you're confusing me with someone else," I tell him sincerely, since that's the only explanation for his accusation.
"No," he simply states. "I'm not mistaking you for anyone else, Y/n Corleone. Or should I say…" he trails off, and I can feel his mouth pulling up in a sick smile, "Danilo’s fiancée ?"
My eyes widen, my heart threatening to burst out of my chest. That one word—Danilo—makes me still. My limbs start shaking uncontrollably, and he can feel it too as his hold on my wrist tightens.
"How… How do you know that?" The words are barely above a whisper as I'm internally fighting for control, that one name rattling me to the core.
But it's impossible… Very few people are aware of my engagement to Danilo. My brother had kept everything under wraps, ashamed, no doubt, about selling his barely legal sister to a monster. So where could he have gotten the information from?
"Come on, you don't remember me?" he continues, his tone mocking as he wraps his fingers in my hair.
He's so close to me, I can smell the clean soap combined with his natural musk off his skin, the scent both titillating and intimidating at the same time. A mix of feelings unfurl in my lower belly, all verging on an unnatural anxiety as he continues to speak.
"I shouldn't have expected much from his fiancée . After all, you're both cut from the same cloth, aren't you?" He gives a sarcastic laugh.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I shake my head, leaning back to avoid making contact with his skin—leaning as far back as I can to get away from him.
"Drop the act," he hisses. "It's just the two of us now. You don't have to pretend anymore."
"I'm not acting. I swear," I continue to deny, but he doesn't seem satisfied.
No, the fingers currently lodged my hair curl around the base of my scalp, his hold strong and unyielding as he brings me closer to his face.
My lips open on a small yelp of pain, and as I come face to face with him, noting the coldness in his eyes, a chill goes down my back.
"Why did you survive? Why did you have to live when everyone else died?" he demands sharply, his words harsh and biting, and I can't help the shock written all over my face at his question.
How? How does he know that? How does he know about Danilo?
It's not unlikely that I might have met him before, since I do have big chunks of my memory missing. But to have been what he accuses me of? I've never in my life hurt anyone, so I can't understand what he's so mad about.
"How do you know about that?" My lower lip trembles as I force the words out, confusion simmering inside of me.
He doesn't answer. His upper lip twitches in distaste, his nostrils flaring as he stares at me.
"You might be alive now…" he gives me a mocking smile, "but don't count yourself lucky yet. I'll make sure you rue the day you survived that fire."
There's an ominous quality to his tone that makes the hairs on my body stand up. But no matter how scary he seems, the muscles in his arm bulging as he grips my hair even tighter, there's something inside of me that won't stay put. Especially when I don't even know what I've done to him to deserve this treatment.
"Why? What have I ever done to you?" I ask, my voice steady for the first time.
"What you did to me?" He repeats, his gaze murderous. Taking one of my hands, he unfurls the small fist I'd made, splaying my palm open wide and bringing my fingers to his forehead, forcing me to touch what feels like a bumpy scar.
"You're telling me you don't remember this either?"
I frown, moving my fingertips over his skin a little more before he suddenly wrenches my hand away.
"You don't remember when you threw a plate at me, splitting my head open? When I lay bleeding at your feet and you didn't even bat an eye. What did you say?" he pauses, looking at me expectantly. "The trash is staining your carpet."
My eyes widen, unable to believe I would have said something like that. But then I remember Danilo's parties, and the events where I'd had to behave myself befitting of my role as his fiancée.
That person, la doña, would have easily done something like that. And she has.
Because while my memory might be fuzzy for the months before the fire, I do remember some of my time at the hacienda. I'd been the worst version of myself, but I'd played my part. I'd been mean, cruel and untouchable.
But this also begs another question. What had he been doing at the hacienda? And how did he know Danilo?
His smile widens when he sees realization seep into my face. And just as I'm about to apologize and explain the extenuating circumstances, his features darken, his fingers gripping even tighter at my scalp.
"I wasn't the only victim of your…caring side."
"What do you mean?"
"Aurora." There's an odd intonation as he says the name, a certain warmth infusing each syllable and revealing a different side to him.
I'm pinned to the spot as I can only stare at him, Aurora's name an echo in my mind.
Her, I know. Her, I remember. And her…
I break eye contact as I look away, shame eating at me. Because from the bits I do remember of her…
"It should have been you who died in the fire, not Aurora," he grits out, so much malice in his tone.
I close my eyes, the pain raw again as I remember the last time I'd seen her.
"How…" I breathe in, trying to stifle a sob. "How did you know Aurora?"
The corners of his mouth curl up in a twisted smile.
"Why? Afraid I know all your deepest secrets? Those shameful things you want to stay buried? Tell me, do your brothers know what hides behind this innocent act you have going on? Do they know that their sister is a bitch and a murderer?"
I shake my head at him, unable to reply. My mind goes into overdrive as I simply shut down, the implications too much for my already feeble psyche.
"Yes, that's right," he continues, "I know you killed her," he accuses in a low voice, the bass reverberating and traveling all the way down my body in the form of a painful shock.
"No…"
"Why? Why did you do it? What the hell did she do to you to deserve being burned alive?"
"I didn't…" I stammer. I couldn't have. No, he's wrong about this.
"Yes, you did," he states with extreme certainty. "Was it not enough that you abused her for years? You had to sign her death warrant too," he snides.
"I didn't. I swear I didn't," I continue to deny. Because there's no way I would ever do that to another human being. Tears gather at the corner of my eyes, the pain in my scalp becoming more unbearable.
"You may fool others with your tears. But they won't work on me," he smirks.
"I didn't kill her," I repeat, but my words have no effect on him.
"Then," he says, bringing me closer to him as his mouth skims the sensitive skin of my ear, "why was the box of matches in your hand?"
"What… How…."
A thousand questions are going through my mind at his pronouncement. But before my mind can conjure up countless scenarios, he confirms my worst fears.
"You should have stayed dead, Y/n," he whispers, his voice so cold and suffocating, it has me gasping for breath. "I killed you once," he smirks when he sees my terrified expression. "It seems I may have to do it again."
Pure terror envelops me, my chest constricting as I have a hard time breathing. Somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind, I recognize his words to be true. My body recognizes his words to be true.
The threat of death hanging over my head, I simply react, thrashing wildly in his grasp and seeking to free myself in any way I can.
But he's strong. Too strong.
The only thing I manage is to ruffle him, make him even madder than before. I'm past caring about the consequences, though. And as I bring my head forward, nabbing him in the chin, I catch him off guard long enough to slip my wrists from his hold.
But as I push at him, hitting and punching to get him out of my way, my knuckles hit against something hard that scrapes the skin off the back of my hand.