"Show me your thorns and i'll show you hands ready to bleed"

Arabella Karve I've always loved storms.

They're one of the few things in the world—at least my world—that reminds me it's okay to feel.

That it's okay to be human.

And I don't mean I love gentle storms, ones with a soft breeze and a touch of clouds and rain.

I mean the types of storms that shake the ground and rip the roots of trees out from the ground. The ones that make the structures of homes groan in pain as the panes of windows shudder. I love the storms that people cower from in fear, as the gentle heavens teach every person just how much power is concealed under the beauty everyone takes advantage of.

The sky is vast and beautiful, always so strong while holding all of the light in the world for everyone else. But sometimes, even it needs to cry, needs to scream and be as destructive as it is beautiful. I bask in the glory of a storm that hits after it's been perfect for too long because I remember it's okay to be weak and angry sometimes, even if it's at the cost of everyone else who only asks for the sides of the sky they can handle, never the ones they fear.

Some nights, when I'm alone and the world is too quiet, the clouds roll in and hide me away from the light that seems so unreachable. And then, it just cries with me—all so I don't have to do it alone.

The world is willing to set down its light for moments to remind those of us who are all alone that we really aren't.

The storms are the only things that seem to understand me, understand what it's like for the clouds to grow too heavy.

Those who don't understand it will curse at it, and those who do will cry with it.

And the best part about them is that flowers bloom after the tears and ruin—so maybe flowers grow somewhere from mine too.

Even if I can't see them, maybe somebody else one day will.

The storm settled down a couple of hours ago, now reduced to a sunshower under the golden morning light. The smell of rain clings to the humid air, and the soft layer of moisture gleams on the glass of my open window.

I feel better than I've felt in weeks.

The pain in my throat is almost entirely gone—now lingering only as a faint throb every now and then when I strain my vocal cords by yelling.

So, the only time my throat hurts is during my brief interactions with Eros.

And as for the bruises, they are almost completely faded—except for one more severe part still clinging to my skin like a constant reminder of my own stupidity, etched in the shapes of fingerprints.

But I no longer look like I was strangled—so I am taking this as a victory.

A small smile spreads across my face at the dumb romance book held tightly in my hands, my legs kicking excitedly in the air. Who knew I was the type to fall for a man who is nothing more than ink on a dead tree, but I can't complain since this is the happiest I've been in what feels like forever.

I have got to spend the entire day reading—from 4 a.m., when I woke up to the sound of thunder shaking the forest trees, until now, the time slowly inching closer to noon.

The paper crinkles beneath my fingers as I turn the page, laying down on my stomach in the sweet-smelling sheets of my bed.

Thanks to Denix unexpectedly barging into my room a few nights ago and spending about an hour shaming me for how disgusting I am—amid the rank smell and mess I've collected on my floor—the sheets have been washed for the first time since I ran away. I didn't manage to clean anything else because I broke down in tears after ten minutes, but at least it's something.

A light breeze reaches me through the open window, the cool air biting at my open skin. The thin material of my satin nightgown I threw on last night does very little to cover up much more than the essential areas.

I make a mental note after a while that I need to paint my nails before reluctantly closing my book, feeling a little light headed from the fact I've avoided going downstairs all day. Food is never worth the chances of running into my father.

But if I pass out from hunger, that means another trip to the medical wing—which sounds about as enjoyable as cutting off my own limb.

Two tries later, I finally stand up without collapsing on my bed from low iron, a proud grin spreading across my face.

I don't bother changing into anything more appropriate as I slip out of my room, knowing that Denix and random sentinels are usually the only people I run into in the middle of the day.

The wood panels are cold beneath my bare feet as I pad down the staircase, quickly reaching the empty kitchen. I am relieved to see there is not a soul around, but there is also a small ache at the fact I knew there wouldn't be. Just like I know that if I go into the living room, or the dining room, it would be just as empty.

Being alone has never bothered me, but on days like this, the realization finally catches up with me—I am not just alone but lonely, and that seems to be an entirely different thing. I know that being lonely isn't something that comes from no one being around; I still feel it in a crowded room. I think loneliness comes from the sense that I feel like I speak a language that no one else understands, and that no one will ever care enough to learn.

The sadness is gone as fast as it came, locked away with every other emotion I have that I feel too much and show too little.

My eyes land on a strawberry cake placed on the kitchen island the second I walk into the empty room, looking absolutely ready to be devoured. I assume one of the private chefs made it for dessert during their morning shift. They come in for about two hours at a time to prepare each meal of the day, so I wouldn't be surprised if they began working on the dinner course so that they can go home earlier tonight. I know their schedule pretty well, having to plan around their presence for when I decide to pillage the kitchen and all.

I always have good finds when I come to visit at random times in the day since they tend to leave all of the leftovers out from each meal for a few hours. Then they toss all of the leftovers once they come back because of the ridiculous scale of food made for a 'family' of three. But it works to my advantage since I can never keep a full meal down around my father, so at least I am able to snack throughout the day.

Though it all doesn't always go to waste.

Whenever my driver doesn't have to go out of his way to take me, I am allowed to take most of the leftovers down to a homeless shelter a few miles away from town. My parents forbid me from learning how to drive and refuse to even discuss the topic, so I have no other option but to be driven everywhere by someone else. Mr. Failor, an older man with possibly the most pure heart I've ever met, is my main chauffeur. And when he's unavailable, I'm stuck asking Eros to take me places.

But unfortunately, my pride and resentment toward Eros prevent me from asking him for any help whatsoever. So when Mr. Failor is occupied, I am housebound.

I let out a deep moan the second the sweet flavor hits my tastebuds, the closest thing I've ever had to an orgasm following.

Assuming that the cake was meant for dessert tonight, I know I will be the only person to eat it anyways. Between my mothers reluctance to touch any food—even though she denies it everytime I ask about it—and my fathers personal vendetta against anything that brings joy, they won't care if it's there or not.

So why not enjoy it a little earlier?

I stab my fork into the many layers and shovel another bite into my mouth. If the sound that the taste draws from me was heard out of context, it would require hours of repentance to be forgiven.

"Is this a bad time?"

I flip around at the sound of a male voice behind me, a thick russian accent hanging on every word. The voice and accent is so familiar, making my legs threaten to give out from under me.

I stumble backwards, my eyes darting around the room, searching for an escape. But I freeze when my gaze lands upon the unfamiliar man who spoke—probably one of the most flawless people I've ever seen.

Light blond hangs neatly in front of his youthful face, and I take note that he must be just a couple years older than me. Smile lines are carved in his golden cheeks, the complexion bringing out the hemlock green eyes that watch me curiously. A strong jaw sets the structure of his face, harmonizing beautifully with the roman nose and heart-shaped lips.

He pushes his hands into his pockets as he leans back against the brick wall beside the entrance, his head tilted in amusement.

Every inch of his lean figure is dressed spectacularly, each piece of material hugging his body like it was personally tailored for him. A short sleeved white polo, clean dark blue dress pants, and a seemingly expensive trench coat.

One foot is crossed over the other as he smirks at me, his eyes running over my body as if he is analyzing everything there is to me.

"Do you really need an answer to that?" I give him a less than impressed look, even though my stomach reacts differently to the way he is watching me than I would like it to.

He lets out a small chuckle, shaking his head as he looks at the ground, his eyes flickering back up to mine. "Ah my bad, I just felt awkward staring at you without saying anything, even though I was rather enjoying the show."

The thin nightgown and my bare feet suddenly become very apparent to me, making me wish the ground would open up and swallow me whole.

"Well I'm glad I could provide some entertainment. But all good things must come to an end, so if you wouldn't mind telling me why you're standing in my kitchen and I've never seen you in my life, that would be great."

He laughs, and I don't know who's going to tell him I'm not trying to be funny.

"I'm Dimitri." He reaches out a hand towards me with a smile. His gaze remains fixed on my face, as if he's trying to understand something about me.

"Arabella." I glance down at his smooth hand, not making any move to shake it.

He just grins, withdrawing his hand from my direction.

"Germaphobe?"

"No."

"Interesting," he smiles, cocking his head.

"What would be interesting is you telling me why you're standing in my kitchen." I repeat, pursing my lips. I am not wasting my time by trying to beat around the bush and make worthless small talk.

"Oh yes," he slides his hands into his pocket once more, his gaze calculating as I lean back against the kitchen island. "I am bound by ometà, so I am unable to disclose my exact position, but you can know I was recently promoted to caporegime under the boss. I'm here for a meeting this morning inorder to discuss the terms of agreement with whom I presume to be your father."

Lovely, I am standing in a nightgown before one of my father's caporegimes—one of the highest ranking positions in the Cosa Nostra whose job it is to oversee whatever crew they are assigned to.

Seems just about my luck.

"I hate to disappoint you, but I don't think your meeting was scheduled to take place in the kitchen with me."

He tilts his head back with laughter, the rich sound spilling out from his lips as smooth as velvet. "I got a little turned around on my way to your father's office, but I can't say I'm necessarily disappointed."

I tilt my head a little, my eyes narrowing the slightest amount.

"Are you flirting with me?"

He furrows his golden eyebrows, two small crevices forming in between them, yet his smile is still there. "Depends. If you're falling for my irresistible charm then yes, darling, of course. But if not, I'll have to say no so that I at least have a little bit of dignity left to die with."

"I'm sure your dignity is intact...just like your ego."

"Ego, dignity...both in perfect condition. But you seem like the type of girl to make sure neither ever stays that way." A playful gleam sparkles in his eyes that feel like gazing up through the cover of trees, the summer sun shining through the leaves and mixing with the earthy green.

"I think I'm the type of girl that makes sure your ego and dignity are the least of your concerns."

"Is that so?" He pushes off the wall, taking a step closer to me with a smile. "I do love a good challenge."

"Spare me the cliches, your 'irresistible charm' probably worked twenty romcoms ago." I scoff at the sad attempt at flirting, turning back to my cake. I scoop up another bite, wishing I was left to enjoy my dessert in peace.

"Look at you, already keeping me humble."

"I think you have a long way to go before ever being considered humble," I mumble.

"How—" Right as Dimitri begins to make—probably another flirty comment—the sound of someone clearing their throat cuts him off. Both of our eyes snap towards the second entrance of the kitchen, where Eros is leaning against the wooden doorframe, his dark eyes glancing from Dimitri to me, and then back to Dimitri.

"Bella, mind introducing me to your friend?"

I roll my eyes, chewing slowly as the two men study each other from across the room. Dimitri pushes back his shoulders, suddenly standing a little taller even though Eros still has a few inches on him.

"I'm Dimitri, I recently started working for Mr.Karve," he introduces himself with a friendly smile, only making Eros glare harder.

I hope that poor boy knows Eros isn't easily charmed...or charmed at all.

"Your employment details are of no importance to me." Eros says darkly, not even bothering to play nice. "What exactly are you doing here with her?" Eros tilts his head towards me, doing a once over of my body and quickly taking in my attire. The atmosphere around him gets impossibly darker as he looks back at Dimitri.

Dimitri brushes off Eros's rudeness with a casual chuckle, "this place is like a maze, so I ended up here when I was looking for the boss's office. I happened to come across Arabella and got distracted by her hospitality." He winks at me playfully.

I ignore them both, working on the cake in front of me.

"But it's very nice to meet you," Dimitri continues, slinging his jacket over his shoulder.

"Wish I could say the same."

"Eros." I warn quietly, only to receive a glare that I return with equal passion.

"Eros?" Dimitri raises his eyebrows, looking entertained as he watches Eros. "You're Vandare."

"Thanks for reminding me, it managed to slip my mind." Eros says sarcastically, pushing off of the door frame that creaks beneath his muscular frame. I scowl as he walks towards me, Dimitri watching the whole thing with a grin.

"I'm here to help," Dimtri says smoothly, each word perfectly planned out.

Eros reaches the island counter I am resting against, not taking his eyes off of Dimitri. His eyes are so cunning and careful, yet he doesn't seem intimidated in the slightest. They are so devoid of emotion that I can't help but try to figure out why—why they're so sharp and yet somehow still glossed over at the same time.

Lost in my own thoughts, I don't realize he's reaching a hand towards my face until it is already right in front of me. I flinch before I can stop myself, preparing for a blow that never comes.

Eros's hand pauses for a second and my eyes flutter open, realizing he was never making any move to hurt me. His expression is empty, giving nothing about what he is thinking away.

I scrunch my nose in confusion, leaning away as he resumes his action. He wipes the corner of my mouth with his thumb like I am a child, his touch not lingering any longer than it has to. Pink frosting stains the pad of his finger as he pulls away, dropping his hand down to his side.

I knew that was there.

"You would help by staying the fuck out of our way," Eros turns his back to me, facing the still amused Dimitri.

"I think Arabella can speak for herself. Can she not?" Dimitri tilts his head with a phantom smirk playing at his lips.

"She can, and she thinks you're going to be late for your meeting." I answer bluntly, somehow managing to suppress a sigh at how obnoxious men are.

"Here I thought we were having a good time together," he says playfully, his perfect teeth looking almost fluorescent in the natural light escaping through the cracks in the rain clouds, seeking shelter in the many windows of our kitchen.

"We were," I glare daggers at the back of Eros's head, even though he can't see me. His hand curls into a fist beside him, the tops of his knuckles turning white like the peaks of snow-capped mountains.

"Then maybe we'll have to continue it one day," Dimitri shoots me a flirty smile. "Maybe under better circumstances—and when you have actual clothes on." His gaze dips before flickering back up to mine.

I hum in response, looking back at my cake longingly.

"It was wonderful to finally meet you, Arabella." He nods in my direction. "And you as well, Vandare."

Eros glowers at him, and if I've ever seen a look that promises a sweet, slow death, this was the one. He makes no move to say anything, or step out of my way.

"Eros, move." I demand, scooping up my cake in one of my hands as I use the other to shove him out of my way. He doesn't budge. Trying to move an over six foot wall of muscle is just about as difficult as it sounds.

"See you around?" Dimitri asks softly as I walk past him, not missing the way Eros follows close behind.

"Only if fate is feeling particularly cruel." I taunt over my shoulder, shooting back the wink he gave me earlier.

Dimitri's laughter follows me out of the room.

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