Hexed (Never After #6)

26. Venesa

TWENTY-SIX

VENESA

I’d like to say I’m sleeping when there’s a knock on my apartment door in the middle of the night, but the truth is I’ve been pacing back and forth in my silk shorts and spaghetti strap pj’s, visualizing all the ways I can murder Aria and get away with it without losing everything.

So far, I haven’t come up with any solutions.

I also haven’t come up with any way to get rid of this rage that feels like a flood being held back by a crumbling dam.

All it’s going to take is one minor quake for the entire thing to blow.

So whoever is knocking on my door at—I look over at the clock—three in the morning better have a good reason for being here.

If it’s Fisher, I’m going to strangle him.

I tried to text him earlier, but my hands were too shaky, and telling anyone about why I’m so viscerally upset would mean actually talking about it, which is definitely something I don’t want to do.

Fisher knows nothing about my childhood.

He’s my best friend, but our friendship is more of the “sit in silence and respect boundaries” type, and avoidance of our pasts has always been a major player in why we enjoy being around each other. We both have daddy issues, and we both have unresolved trauma we handle in less-than-healthy ways. That’s why we connect. Talking about things would only make them worse, and we gravitated toward each other because we didn’t push the way others did. Didn’t judge.

And now, even after all these years, there’s a silent boundary in place, urging us to never break it open too far, or else we’ll ruin the years of silent acknowledgment that we’ve built.

Grumbling to myself, I throw off my blankets and make my way to the door, throwing it open.

Enzo.

Of course it’s him.

He’s looking at the ground, his forearm resting on the top part of the door. His hair is mussed, bits falling just over his eyebrow like he was in a fight and didn’t have time to fix himself up.

He’s dressed down compared to his usual suits, wearing just his button-up shirt rolled past his elbows, tattoos on full display.

Butterflies explode in my stomach at the sight of him, and like usual, I hate myself for it.

“What are you doing here?” I sigh. “I’m not in the mood.”

He looks up, his blue eyes piercing as they gaze into mine. “I have a surprise for you.”

“Well, I don’t want it,” I say firmly.

He frowns, and I try to close the door on him, but he kicks his foot out, wedging it into the frame. And I might be pissed, but I don’t want to hurt him.

“It’s rude not to accept gifts.” He clicks his tongue.

“Fuck off.” I smile sweetly. “How’s that for rude?”

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Shrugging, I lean my head against the edge of the door, ignoring the way my chest pulls tight. “For what?”

He licks his lips. “For having Aria ask you to be a bridesmaid. That was fucked up of me.”

“She’s your fiancée. You don’t owe me anything.”

“Will you let me explain why?”

I cock my head. “Will it make a difference?”

He stares at me like he thinks maybe it will, but in the end, he shakes his head, his arm still resting on the frame as he leans in farther. “Come with me? Please?”

My teeth sink into my bottom lip while I think about it. I want to, mainly because I wonder what he has for me. “I don’t like gifts; that’s more your fiancée ’s thing. Why don’t you give it to her?” Anger vibrates up my spine at the thought.

Enzo gives a half grin. “This is more of a you-specific surprise.”

My brows rise, curiosity spinning its web and trying to snare me. “I hate it, thanks.”

“You don’t even know what it is.”

“So?”

He groans, rubbing his hands over his face, and then he straightens, determination lighting his features. He steps fully into the room, his hand forcing the door open and making me stumble back.

I stiffen my spine, because who the hell does he think he is?

“It will make you feel better,” he promises.

“Is it Aria’s head on a stick?” I grin wickedly at him.

He cuts me a look. “Close, but no.”

Well, now I’m really curious.

I purse my lips and weigh my options. “Still, no. Thanks for asking, though.”

Spinning around, I intend to head for my bed, but Enzo grasps my arm and stops me in my tracks. He twirls me back easily.

Everything he does with me seems to be effortless.

He runs his fingers up my arm, goose bumps sprouting in their wake, and then grasps my chin. “I wasn’t asking , piccola sirena.”

His deep voice vibrates through me like static electricity.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” I argue. “And to be completely honest, I think it’s really presumptuous and such a man thing to tell me what to do and then, on top of that fact, to even?—”

I screech when Enzo lifts me by the hips, throwing my body over his shoulder and locking my legs in place before whirling around and carrying me out the door to my apartment and down the spiral staircase.

Blood rushes to my head as I bang my fists against his back, and I cannot stand the way his muscles ripple with every step, my body jostling as he makes his way across the hall and then opens the wood panel to the basement.

My surprise is down here?

“Stop fidgeting.” He smacks my upper thigh, and the breath whooshes from my lungs at the sting, arousal flaring deep in my core.

I do, but not because I’m listening to his direction; it’s only because I’m afraid if he smacks me again, he’ll be able to feel wetness dripping down the inside of my thighs from how turned on this whole thing is making me. I may be pissed off at him, but I’m not dead .

By the time we make it all the way to the basement, I’m resting my elbow on Enzo’s shoulder, propping my chin on my palm.

Scotty’s by the door to my aquarium room, and I beam at him. “Hey, cutie.”

He chuckles, straightening and opening the door, and Enzo marches us right in.

It isn’t until we’re in the room that he finally sets me down, and he does it torturously slowly, the front of my body sliding along the front of his, every inch connected with just a thin layer of fabric separating our skin.

The air thickens, and heat flares through every single part of me. My eyes meet his, and my insides flutter from the way he’s staring.

I don’t say anything because I’m afraid of what will happen if I do, especially since I’m supposed to be mad at him, so instead I turn away—and there’s my gift, front and center and absolutely perfect.

Enzo hovers behind my back, his body heat wrapping around me like a cocoon, and suddenly, I’m not so angry at him anymore.

“Surprise,” he whispers.

My father is bound to the torture table, gagged, bruised, and bloody.

“You really did bring me a gift,” I murmur, taking a stride forward.

“Happy birthday.”

I grin.

“Hey, Dad,” I say, a sudden pep in my step. “Let me introduce you to my babies, Jack and Flora.”

I take my time getting things ready because I’ve dreamed of this moment many times over the years. I never thought it would really happen. I assumed my father had run off or was dead in a ditch somewhere, and although I’m sure it’s unhealthy and won’t give me any peace, I can’t help but wonder why he actually came back.

Adrenaline pumps through my limbs as I take a knife and drag it across his forearm, the skin splitting like butter, a thin red line of blood bubbling on the surface.

He grunts, and satisfaction rips through me when tears escape the corners of his eyes and drip down his face.

“Are you crying ?” I tsk-tsk, excitement fluttering like bird wings in my stomach. “ Daddy . Andersens don’t cry. Andersens are strong.” Leaning down, I place the blade at his leg and whisper in his ear. “Crying is for the weak, remember? You taught me that.”

Screams from my father sound so sweet when they’re at my hand, and I slam the knife into his upper thigh, reveling in the muffled noise that pours out around the gag. Sighing in satisfaction, I stand and walk over to where my stonefish venom is, then make my way back to the torture table.

I’m hyperaware of Enzo standing against the far wall, the same way he did the last time he was down here with me. And maybe this makes me a freak, but having him here still feels erotic.

Vulnerable.

It makes my skin tingle and my senses spark.

And this gift? It’s the best birthday present I’ve ever received. I’ve never had anyone who just gets me before, and Enzo Marino? He understands me in a way that transcends the physical.

Focusing back on my piece-of-shit father, I stand at the head of the table and lean over him until my face is upside down to his view.

His face is busted. Bruised and blackened with giant contusions on both sides. Judging by his dilated pupils, I’d be surprised if he doesn’t have a concussion. I glance at Enzo, noticing his knuckles are red and puffy.

He did this for me .

Nobody has ever shown up for me this way, and it makes my body warm.

Shaking off the emotions, I focus back on my father. “I’ll make you a deal, Harald.”

I smile at him sweetly when I notice his Adam’s apple bob from a heavy swallow.

“I’ll undo the gag for you, let you have your last words. But you need to tell me why you came back here. Otherwise, I’ll keep you alive for days, sending this poison here”—I hold up the needle—“through your veins repeatedly, until you beg me to kill you.” My eyes narrow, hatred bleeding into the moment like a thick black cloud. “Similar to how my mother begged right before she died.”

Reaching down with my free hand, I rip the tape off his mouth and pull out the balled-up shirt, damp with blood-tinged saliva.

To his credit, he doesn’t scream or cry out; he just moves his jaw like it’s sore.

“Speak.” I place the needle at his knuckle.

“I came back because Trent Kingston told me to.”

“That’s not good enough.” I shake my head. “Not when you killed Momma. How dare you show your face here like everything is gone and forgotten after all these years.” Leaning forward, I press the needle into his skin and release the venom. “I’ll never forget what you did to us. To me. And I’ll never forgive you.”

Harald’s brown eyes widen, and his head shakes slightly back and forth. “Yrsa, I…I’m not a good man. I can admit that. But I didn’t kill your mother. I wasn’t even there that night.”

“Liar!” I backhand him, making his face hit the metal and a tooth fly out of his mouth before skittering onto the floor. “Don’t you lie to me.”

He whimpers, blood pooling beneath his lips, but he focuses on me again. “I’m not lying. I had run away. My gambling was—it was out of control, Yrsa.”

“Don’t call me that,” I say through gritted teeth, anger making my vision blur.

“I’m telling you the truth.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Sweat beads at the temples of his blond hair, and his body jerks. The venom is settling in nicely, but I want answers before he loses consciousness or I lose control and kill him.

“I hadn’t been home in a couple of months at that point, don’t you remember? There were gambling debts I couldn’t pay and people after me I knew would kill me before I could get them the money. I wasn’t there.”

Standing up straight, I digest his words and try to separate fact from fiction.

“Momma said it was you when I asked who was home.” I step back, dropping the needle onto my rolling table. “She told me.”

But a flash of her thinned lips and scared expression floats through my memory.

He coughs and grunts, his left arm swelling and growing pink. “She was lying.”

I scoff. “Convenient. If it wasn’t you, who was it?” After grabbing the knife I placed down earlier, I hold it at the side of his neck. “And don’t pretend like you don’t know. Tell me the truth and I’ll make your death fast, even though you don’t deserve it.”

“If I had to guess?” He coughs again, blood seeping from the corners of his mouth. “The people I owed money to.”

I press the blade harder into his neck. “And who was that, Harald?”

“Your uncle. Trent Kingston.”