If You Stay (Beautifully Broken, #1)(75)

I rush through the house, through the extravagant corridors and over the marble floors, the rich and polished surroundings that I would never have dreamed I would find myself in. I don’t notice it now though. It has faded into an insignificant corner of my mind. All that matters now is Luca.

I make my way out the back of the house, through the gardens, through the English maze that is perfectly manicured and challenging to maneuver. I manage it with ease, however. I memorized its twists and turns on a happier day.

The weather is stormy today and the normally cheerful and bright Maltese sky is gray and thunderous. I can feel the electricity in the air, snapping the ends of my long hair with static. This day looks as foreboding as I feel, which I hope is not a sign.

I search through the maze. I search the beaches as my feet sink into the cool sand. I search the gardens with their exotic and sweet-smelling blooms and then I search the garage. His car, a shiny black Jaguar, is still in its slot and its hood is cool to the touch. Luca has not driven it today. I search the front lawns and the back. And just when I begin to panic, to fear that he has not returned to Chessarae after all, I search the stables.

As I walk through the heavy wooden doors, the smells of the horses and the hay and the saddle-soap and leather assail my nose and I breathe them in. I’ve always loved this place. It is peaceful here. And I suddenly know, because I can feel it, that Luca is here.

I walk quietly down the main corridor, staring into each stall as I pass.

And finally, finally, when I come to the very last stall on the left, Luca is there and my breath hitches in my chest, freezing on my lips.

Luca is slumped on the ground, in the corner, his expression desolate. He is beautiful even here, even in this condition, and I cannot help but stare down at him as tears fill my eyes.

He is dirty and his clothing is torn. There are smears of blood on his shirt, dried now to a rusty dark brown. I swallow hard, trying not to imagine where the blood has come from.

Luca’s face is tortured as he stares up at me, his head in his hands. There is blood on his fingers.

“It happened again.”

His words are low and husky and rough, yet elegant at the same time. He is always refined, always perfect, always Luca.

His self-loathe is apparent and it breaks my heart.

I nod mutely because there are no words for this moment. I bend to help him to his feet. At 6’3”, he towers above me. He is slender and strong and masculine. He is lithe and powerful, beautiful and graceful.

And sometimes, on his very darkest days, he is a depraved killer.

But I have gotten ahead of myself. I should begin at the beginning. If I don’t, you will never understand.



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Chapter One


From the Beginning




Eva

As I step from the ferry onto the pier, the first thing I notice about Malta is the smell in the air. It smells of sand and sea. Everything about this small island nation revolves around the shimmering blue water surrounding it. Fishermen have been born and bred and lived and died for thousands of years here. The sea is everything.

As a testament to that, ships and boats and dinghies are everywhere around me. There are fishermen, sailors and dockhands. There are fish mongers, there are fish markets and there are crusty old Maltese men who creep out to the piers at the crack of dawn to fish just for the pure enjoyment of it. The saltiness of the sea is in their blood.

Romans used to call Malta the Land of Honey. And as I stand here in the early evening light, I can see why. The sun is just starting to sink over the horizon, over the edge of the sea, and everything here is bathed in radiant gold. The buildings created from sandstone and ancient rock appear to glow in the light. And even though the name truly stems from Malta’s ancient history of honey production, I prefer to think it is because Malta is continually bathed in a honey-colored glow from the sun.

I make my way down the wooden planked pier, taking care not to trip over the uneven boards. I have been traveling for thirty hours so I am definitely inclined to stumble. I can’t remember when I’ve ever been so exhausted.

“Dr. Talbot!”

A voice with a Maltese accent calls for me and I turn my head to find a stooped older man in a white floppy fishing hat making his way to me through the throng on the pier.

I smile and hold out my hand.

“You must be Tomas.”

The man shakes his head. “No, my name is Alanzo. Tomas was detained, but he sent me to drive you to your summer cottage.”

I nod. “Thank you. I appreciate that very much.”

Immediately and unbidden, I form an opinion about this man.

Loyal, Kind. Trusting and open. An inherent need to please.

I can see all of these things in his eyes. Since my doctoral dissertation involves studying the decisiveness of the first meeting while assessing the personality traits of strangers, I cannot help but do it myself whenever I meet anyone. It can grow annoying. But it is why I am here; to continue my research over the summer and wrap up my project so that I can begin a Psychiatry practice.

The old man stoops to pick up my suitcase. I put my hand on his. “Please, there must be someone I can hire to bring my bags. I have quite a few more.”

I motion behind me at a large stack of bags and sealed plastic crates. Alanzo’s eyes widen and I can’t help but smile.

“My research,” I explain. “It takes up a lot of space.”