Bound (The Devil’s Vow #2)

21. Nightmares and Memories

Chapter twenty-one

Nightmares and Memories

Gianni carried me through the halls of the castle.

His grip was firm but not painful.

Still, I hit him so that he would let me go.

My fist ached from where I had hit his back, it had been like punching stone.

Unmoving.

Unyielding.

I stopped struggling, trying to conserve what little energy I had left. Once he put me down and I had an opportunity to escape, I would.

My heart still raced in my chest, but I had to calm down.

I had to think.

Gianni turned a corner, and suddenly, we were in the castle’s private movie theater.

The room was dim, lit only by low sconces along the walls, but I could make out the plush velvet seats in rows and the massive screen at the front.

Gianni set me down, slowly, his large hands lingering on my waist for a brief second before he stepped back.

I looked toward the door, hope blooming in my chest for an escape, yet it quickly shriveled.

Several armed men stood there, blocking the exit. They were more than prepared to grab me if I tried to make a run for it.

On my left, Isabella chirped from her cage.

Her cage door was wide open.

The bird tilted her head and then, with a sharp voice, called out, “Beautiful!”

Nervous, I glanced at the buffet table on my right, where the staff was finishing up placing trays of Italian dishes—pasta, bread, sauces, and meats—in heated containers.

I wondered what could be going on in their minds.

Did they know how crazy their boss was?

Surely they did.

Some of them had to clean his office and got to see the collection of me first-hand on a daily.

Gianni’s voice interrupted my thoughts. “I know you didn’t eat yet. The chef said you never came down for breakfast. Would you like me to make you a plate?”

Frowning, I set my teddy bear and book on the theater chair next to me. Then, I folded my arms over my chest. “I want answers. Not food.”

His tone was calm, but there was a hint of something deeper beneath the surface—frustration, maybe even sadness. “My office didn’t give you enough answers?”

“No. Just more horrifying questions.”

Gianni stared at me for a moment, and his gaze was unreadable.

A minute later, the staff finished their setup and left the room without a word.

The door closed behind them with a soft click, and we were alone.

“Well. . .then we should get started.” Gianni let out a long breath, kicked off his shoes, pulled off his socks, and then started unbuttoning his black shirt.

I took a step back. “Why are you undressing?”

“My body heats up when I’m nervous.” He took the shirt off and then threw it to the side. His chest was bare now, and I couldn’t help but notice the dark rose tattoos sprawling across his muscular torso. Scars crisscrossed his skin, marring some of the art, each mark telling a silent story that I probably didn’t want to know.

His jeans hung low by his waist, drawing attention to the sharp defined cuts of muscle on his hips and. . .making him appear deliriously delicious.

A frown spread across my face.

Right now, I hated that he was so goddamn gorgeous.

I hated that even now, after everything I had seen, after all the horrors that were seared into my mind, Gianni was still so…gorgeous to my fucking brain and my body craved him.

It made no sense!!

My brain should have recoiled, should have registered him as disgusting, psychotic, and terrifying.

What the fuck? Get it together!

After the nightmare I had witnessed in his office and that closet. The decapitated heads, the obsessive collection of me, the twisted shrine—it all should have made him repulsive.

But it didn’t.

Instead, as he stood there, shirtless, his body radiating heat like some sort of hot magnetic force, I couldn’t tear my eyes away.

Those dark roses sprawling across his skin.

Those jagged scars that sliced through them.

That fucking pitiful look on his face like he was sad and hoped for my mercy.

I wished my mind could flip some switch, see him as a monster and not. . .this.

Not a man whose presence seemed to command every bit of air in the private theater.

And even more horrible, as I looked at Gianni, something deep inside me—a part of me I didn’t want to acknowledge—felt calmer.

Less terrified.

The panic that had clawed at my throat when I was alone in his office was now fading, the tightness in my chest loosening as if just his nearness regulated every nerve in my body.

It was as though my body felt entirely safe with him.

I almost wanted to laugh at the thought.

Safe? With him?

The man who had stalked me for years, who kept mementos of my life, who had killed people and preserved their heads as if they were nothing more than trophies?

And yet. . .I wasn’t trembling anymore.

The pulse that had been racing through my body just moments ago had slowed, and my hands were no longer shaking.

How is this possible? How can my body feel safe when he is the very source of my fear?

Gianni studied me as if I were the only thing in the world that mattered.

And maybe that was what scared me the most in his office. It was all proof that before I even knew who he was, I had already been his whole world.

My body knew it was his well before my mind.

Sighing again and now barefoot, he walked over to the long buffet table of food, but he didn’t touch any of it.

Instead, he reached for something I hadn’t noticed there before—a joint.

Next, he picked it up, lit it, and smoke rose lazily into the air.

I tensed.

Slowly, he turned back to me, and those green eyes grew darker and more intense. “You should eat before I explain.”

“After everything I saw, I don’t have an appetite.”

Gianni walked back over and exhaled a long trail of smoke. His gaze never left mine. “You should be hungry since you threw up in my closet.”

“How did you know I was in there in the first place?”

“When I walked with Fabio, I could see the shadow of your feet among the red light glowing below the door.”

I deepened my frown.

“Then, I motioned for Fabio to leave.”

“Why not just come to the door and open it?”

“Because. . .”

I raised my eyebrows. “What?”

“I didn’t come because. . .” Gianni put the joint close to his mouth, and his expression hardened. “I was scared.”

“You don’t get scared.”

“Every human in this world fears something.” He inhaled the joint.

“And what do you fear?”

He blew out smoke. “Losing your love. It is the one thing I can’t use my power to get. To take. I can’t. . .force you to love me. . .No amount of guns or men or. . .money could get your love.”

He lowered the hand holding the joint.

Smoke curled from the tip and it began to swirl in the air between us.

I crossed my arms tighter over my chest and stood my ground. “So. . .when did you first start stalking me?”

And for the first time since this nightmare had started, I saw something flicker in his eyes—something almost human. His mask of control slipped, just for a second, and I wondered if he was as trapped by his obsession as I was by him.

But then the moment passed, and his expression hardened again.

He lifted his hand, took another drag from the joint, and exhaled slowly. “I’m shocked. You still don’t remember who I am?”

I widened my eyes. “I thought. . .you looked familiar when I first saw you.”

He bobbed his head. “That’s fine. You were young and. . .our interactions would have been very small in the grander context of your life, but. . .”

“What?”

“I thought that once you saw the teddy bear. . .you might have remembered.”

How was my teddy bear connected?

I thought back to the times when I’d had it. When I was young, I carried him everywhere. Once I turned twelve, I kept him in my bedroom and only held it when I was sleeping.

Then, there were the nightmares when I squeezed the teddy bear so close to my body I was sure the stuffing was close to coming out.

I stared at the table of food, but my mind wasn’t there.

Instead, I was clutching the teddy bear tighter in my head.

How does the teddy bear fit in?

Gianni hadn’t bought it for me—he hadn’t been part of my life.

So it couldn’t have been that.

My mother had given it to me when I was young, possibly three. Many years before the world turned dark and twisted.

But something about the way Gianni was watching me right now, made me feel like I was missing a piece of the puzzle.

He knew I was trying to remember.

Okay. Think about the teddy bear.

My thoughts kept circling back to the nightmares that my teddy bear would help me through—the ones that used to wake me up in cold sweats, panting in the darkness.

Why do I keep thinking about them?

It was as if my brain knew the answer also and was desperately trying to give me clues, but I couldn’t quite grasp them.

Okay. Take your time.

In my head, I squeezed the bear harder, trying to dig deeper, to unlock what my mind seemed to be hiding.

And then just like that, a memory hit me, sudden and sharp.

Wait.

Shockingly, it wasn’t a moment that I had a nightmare.

It was something else.

One night, during a major thunderstorm, I had woken up to the sound of a man screaming to God. He just kept begging for mercy over and over and then screaming in pain.

And even though I was so young, I knew without a doubt that my stepfather was torturing him.

I remembered the wind howled outside, and the rain lashed against the windows.

Lightning flashed, lighting up the room in brief, terrifying bursts.

I sat up and realized that the screams were coming directly from downstairs—Maximo, my stepfather, was torturing someone in the living room, most likely right where the stairs ended. Had he been doing this in his office, the screaming would have been more distant.

I hadn’t known the man, but his cries of pain echoed through the house, each one cutting into me.

I cried for him and held my teddy bear close to me.

But. . .how does that relate to Gianni? There was no way he was the man. I was. . .ten at the time which meat he would have been eighteen. Plus the man died. Maximo never let anyone live after he tortured him. So. . .think. . .

I went back to that memory.

The power kept flickering off and on.

In fact, so young, the whole house had felt like a nightmare, and there was even one moment when. . .I couldn’t tell if I was awake or still dreaming.

Oh wait. I did have a nightmare that night.

I closed my eyes.

What was the nightmare that woke me up? I think it was the same one that always did. . .

I was usually in a dark room where blood dripped from the ceiling, pooling at my feet, and a faceless figure stood in the corner, watching me.

Always, I would try to scream, but no sound came out.

And then the faceless figure would always reach out its hand and wrap it around my neck.

And I would wake up before that thing began choking me.

Sadness filled my heart as I thought about the younger me, being so small and alone—no mother or truly anybody to hug and console me through those frightening dreams.

Well. . .at least I had my Nightmare Guard.

Anytime I had a really bad dream, my Nightmare Guard would walk in.

Just like he always did.

I never knew his name.

The night shift guards pretty much only arrived once I was asleep or heading into slumber. By morning, they would be gone, and the day shift guards took over, escorting me to school, ballet class, etc.

If a night shift guard were around me during the day, it was usually because Maximo needed one of my day guards for something or they were sick and couldn’t show up.

Still, my heart pounded, telling me that I was close.

Hold on.

On regular nights when I had a nightmare, my Nightmare Guard would just come into the room, turn on the lights, and stand in the doorway with his back to me, remaining silent.

Sometimes, he’d take out his gun and place it at his side, as if to tell my young self that if I had another nightmare, he’d shoot it down.

At least that was what my young mind conjured up because he never spoke, but he didn’t need to.

His presence was enough.

But that night of the storm, when the lights were going in and out, my Nightmare Guard came further into my room than usual.

The storm was wild, and the power kept failing.

He walked closer to my bed, much closer than ever before, and then placed a turned-on flashlight on the bed.

The beam pointed upward.

The soft light glowed against the ceiling.

I remember looking up at it and hugging my teddy bear, thinking that the light made everything seem less terrifying.

And. . .he picked up my mother’s book and read it to me.

Shocked, I lay back on the pillow and listened.

His voice was so soothing.

I didn’t even get to the end of the story, before going right back to sleep.

What did he look like?

The memory was so faded and it had been dark in my room that night. In my memory, shadows covered his face.

I must have woken up later that night due to Maximo shooting his gun, probably killing the man he tortured.

But there was no need for me to sit up and be scared.

This time my Nightmare Guard stood in the doorway, but this time, he had two guns out—one in each hand.

I remembered that I smiled so big, knowing that there was no way anymore nightmares would show up.

And there my Nightmare Guard stood with his back to me and his broad shoulders outlined by the dim light.

Could that be. . ?

Another memory surfaced.

Another nightmare, another night, I was twelve and. . .my Nightmare Guard had come to turn on the light.

I had woken up, gasping for air, covered in sweat, and my sheets tangled around my small body.

He had been standing in the doorway, his usual spot. And like the other time, he came in, read the book, and then left. But this time, the lights had been on, and he had given me something I hadn’t seen before—a small, sad smile.

Wait.

I froze.

My breath caught in my throat, and everything came crashing together.

Gianni.

It had been him!

Oh my God.

I couldn’t stop thinking about it, about the memory that had slammed into me with the force of a hurricane.

The Nightmare Guard, the man who had always been there, silently protecting me from ten to about thirteen, was Gianni.

Just slimmer, younger, and somehow much less terrifying.

My mind piecing it together.

I hadn’t recognized him before because he looked so damn different now, hardened and sharp around the edges.

Back then, he had a baby face, soft and innocent, with a twinkle in his eyes like he hadn’t yet been consumed by the darkness that clung to him now.

At that time, he wasn’t even twenty.

He’d been more boy than man.

I couldn’t picture him then as the Devil he was now.

I opened my eyes.

My breath hitched in my throat, and I looked at him— really looked at him.

I could still see the ghost of that younger version of him in his features, but the years had changed him.

Hardened him.

There was no more innocence, no more softness in his green eyes. They were darker now, deeper, like they held all the weight of the things he had done.

The things he had seen.

Yes. It’s fucking him.