The Counterfeit Lover (War of Sins Book 3)
The Counterfeit Lover: Chapter 13

Michele woke up with a crushing pain in his head, the images of the night before flooding his brain as did the soreness in his body.

Opening his eyes, he came face to face with the wreckage he’d made of his room—the busted screens, the broken furniture and shattered glass.

He’d destroyed his entire bedroom.

Andreas, bless his heart, had seen his dark mood and had taken Lovely to sleep with him for the night, leaving Michele to drown himself in the bottom of a bottle—purely at the mercy of his guilty conscience.

The first thing he’d noted when he’d arrived back home had been the blood.

The dried blood on his cock.

There had been so much of it that he’d felt himself blanch, his entire body rebelling at the thought that he’d done that—that he’d hurt her like that.

But then he’d looked at his video feed. Right in time to spot his pet in her bathroom, blood running down her thighs as she tried to clean herself up—blood that simply wouldn’t stop. She could barely tend to herself as broken sobs erupted in the air. Sounds that stabbed him so deep, they made him want to fucking end himself on the spot.

In his frenzy to get a reaction from her, he hadn’t realized something was wrong. He’d been pissed about her indifference, but he’d never intended to hurt her like that.

He’d been rough before with her, but never to that extreme, and that only made him spiral further into self-loathing.

He’d replayed everything that had happened in his head, but even that was skewed as his emotions had clouded all attempts at rationality, the moments hazy, untrustworthy. So in an attempt to get some clarity he’d played back the footage from when he’d been in her room, watching all his movements as he’d interacted with her.

And that was when he’d seen it.

The monster in him.

The true monster that had…

Closing his eyes, he’d tried to regulate his breathing, panic taking hold of him as never before.

He’d seen everything for what it truly was.

Rape.

He’d…raped her.

Maybe before he could have excused his behavior in light of her love. Because she was so enamored of him, she would agree to everything he wanted—no matter how rough, or how degrading. Since she was in love with him, her consent automatically applied to every dubious situation.

It was a loophole, but one he’d used to the fullest to justify his treatment of her—because back then she was just a means to an end. Just someone to use and discard.

Not anymore.

He’d already decided he was going to keep her—make her his forever.

Then how could he do that to her? How the hell could he…

He’d seen her struggles to clean and patch herself up, the loud cries of pain and earth-shattering sobs.

He’d seen and felt her pain as his own.

Because he, himself, had been on the receiving end of that. And he knew exactly how it felt.

The moment he’d made that connection in his mind, he’d spiraled out of control.

The rest of the night was a blur as he’d sought to physically hurt himself like he’d done to her. He’d cut at his body, slow, precise cuts that had resulted in the greatest amount of pain.

He’d watch her cry her heart out and he’d hurt himself even more for the bastard he was.

Because at this rate… He was never going to get her love back.

And that was the biggest problem of all.

Right at that moment, Michele felt that her love was the most essential thing to his survival. The only thing he needed to go on. And for as long as she withheld it from him, he was going to suffer unlike he’d ever suffered before.

As the fog from his mind dissipated, he dialed Andreas and told him to deal with the wreckage in his room before he disappeared for the day.

He postponed all his meetings, all his business appointments and he went out into the world.

Since he’d committed to his mission, he’d killed any feelings of guilt he might have had. He’d stripped everything from himself until only anger remained—raw, bleeding but calculated anger. Enough to ensure that his end goal would be achieved while also keeping his wits about him.

In that moment he felt thrust into the past—into a whirlpool of emotions that were as foreign as they were consuming.

The anger was there, but it was at himself, as was the guilt.

And Michele…couldn’t deal.

For the entire morning, he wandered about, aimlessly walking the city streets in an attempt to get some mental clarity, yet there was none to gain.

He’d fucked up. And he’d done it in such an uncharacteristic way that he still felt her sobs of pain engrained in his very being.

And though he tried to deal with it in his customary rational manner, he found he could not. There were questions, but the answers did not satisfy him.

Nothing did.

So instead, he did the only thing he could.

He shut down. He completely shut down, killing every bit of emotion within him so he wouldn’t have to deal with the pain anymore—so he wouldn’t lose himself.

Yet even that one safety mechanism that would have worked in the past seemed flimsy this time. It allowed him to shut out the world. But he couldn’t shut her out.

She was still there, in his mind, in his heart, in his goddamn blood.

He could still hear her sobs.

He could still see her tears.

And the blood… By Hades, the blood was the worst.

Before he knew what he was doing—for the real Michele would never do something as idiotic—he headed to a supermarket, buying everything he could think was necessary.

He filled his cart with anything that caught his eye.

Pain killers, pads, ointments, vitamins, teas. He also added a various selection of chocolates and things that might sweeten the deal. To make things even better, he also bought a few pairs of underwear to replace the ones he’d torn.

With an entire bag of goodies and the clock that was ticking against him with Vlad and Assisi’s arrival, Michele hurried to the Kuznetsov house, doing his best to by pass security with a huge bag in tow.

But he wasn’t deterred.

It was as if his entire focus had switched, only one goal remaining in mind.

His pet.

Not to mention the fact that it was close to a suicide mission. He was heading into an enemy’s house in broad daylight.

Rational Michele would have been completely opposed it—mocking the idea itself.

This Michele didn’t know how to get there faster.

Deep down, he knew he was too far gone. The question of losing himself wasn’t so much a question anymore but a certainty.

He had lost himself. But not in the manner he’d expected.

Instead, he’d lost everything but the sight of her.

Somehow, he managed to elude the guards and make his way to his pet’s room. As he slowly pushed it open, it was to replace it empty.

Pursing his lips, he tried to swallow his disappointment. Instead, he told himself it was for the best. He’d leave the items he’d bought on her desk and he’d take his leave before he did more damage, before he got himself killed for good—literally and figuratively. Odd how for someone who’d always chased death here he was, of a mind to avoid it—determined to not succumb to it. And revenge was the last thing on his mind as he honed in on the state of his mortality.

Michele barely realized how in the span of twenty-four hours he’d thought about his revenge exactly once—when he’d canceled his meetings. And even that, in the most absentminded fashion.

At that moment, he’d only one purpose, and it had nothing to do with the past and everything to do with the future.

Arranging the bag on the desk, he lingered for a moment as he inhaled the scent that was so characteristically hers. It was so comforting, he felt like never leaving the place.

But leave he must.

With a resigned sigh, he turned to leave just the bathroom door opened.

And there she was.

He blinked, his eyes straining to accommodate to the sight before him. She was, quite possibly, more beautiful than he remembered. Which was absolute madness since he’d been watching her closely for weeks now. He knew every little inch of her skin better than he knew his own.

Yet in that moment, as she appeared before him, he was struck.

Simply, utterly struck.

Her mahogany hair flowed down her back, a contrast to her beautiful pale skin. She wore no make-up, but she’d never need it. Her face was the type to make poets weep with the beauty of the ineffable and sculptors obsess over angles of perfection.

Certainly, to his trained eye she was the embodiment of pathos—of that driving force that connected him with his inner artist.

She was dressed in a pair of oversized sweatpants and an equally large shirt she’d tucked in the band of the pants.

Her eyes widened as she took him in, an initial expression of terror giving way to a neutral one.

But not before Michele spotted everything—everything he’d done with his own damn hand.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asked in a small, apprehensive voice.

‘I brought you something,’ he mumbled, doing his best to remain his confident, assertive self though he wanted nothing more than apologize for the brute he’d been.

Yet that was the issue.

Michele never apologized.

‘Why?’ She took a step forward, leaning to look inside the bag. Her brows drew up in surprise as she spotted the contents.

‘Because I hurt you when you asked me not to,’ he said, slowly. It was completely antithetical to himself to recognize he’d been wrong—at any point.

He only knew how to stride forward regardless of the casualties or the victims of his revenge. Never once had he given them any thought as long as his purpose would be achieved.

And so he’d fulfilled the first step of his plan. He’d annihilated the Lastra family—the man guilty for Nicolo and Cami’s death.

He should have moved on.

Once his plan had been accomplished, he should have moved on to the next stage, as he’d previously planned. He should have never looked back.

Yet there she was.

The one person who made him doubt himself when he’d thought himself most secure.

The one person who’d hurt him more with one tear than he’d hurt at the hands of his abusers.

She blinked at him, his words clearly surprising her just as they surprised him.

‘You… You admit that you hurt me?’ she asked in a low voice.

He nodded.

‘I lost control,’ he simply said.

It wasn’t an apology—he wasn’t quite there yet. It wasn’t an explanation—Michele would never explain himself. But it was his only way of taking the blame onto himself.

‘And so you brought me this,’ she continued, pointing to the bag filled with every little random thing he’d thought she might need—that she might like.

He nodded.

‘Next time it won’t be like that again,’ he assured her. ‘I’ll control myself better. I’ll be more gentle,’ he gave her the semblance of a smile.

She opened her mouth and closed it a few times as she stared at him—almost as if she were looking at a madman.

‘There won’t be a next time, Michele. I meant it. I don’t want you in my life—now or ever. I don’t want you,’ she added emphatically, giving him the direct cut both with her words and with her gaze.

‘And I told you,’ he started, feeling himself grow impatient again—out of control. A deep breath and he attempted to stabilize himself. He wouldn’t behave like an animal again but he also wouldn’t allow his pet to have the misconception that he would ever leave her alone. ‘You’re my woman, Zia,’ he said as he took a step forward. ‘And I’m not letting you go.’

He didn’t raise his voice. He merely informed her of the situation as he would someone about the universal state of black and white—there was no debate about it.

‘I may have overreacted last night, but I won’t do it again,’ he told her, half of it for his benefit.

‘No,’ she shook her head, bringing her arms over her chest and assuming a combative stance. ‘And if you don’t leave me alone, I’ll tell my sister. I’ll tell Vlad. I’ll tell everyone.‘

He was surprised at her statement, but he was also equally intrigued.

Taking another step towards her, he merely smiled.

‘Why haven’t you done it until now?’ he drawled in a smooth tone. ‘You could have told them from the beginning. So why haven’t you?’

Her lips trembled, a sign that there was something more to that story.

‘Do tell. Why haven’t you told anyone?’ he asked, his lips stretched into a smug smile as he caged her in. Her back hit the edge of the table as her hands came to rest on his pectorals for support. She quickly realized her mistake and sought to remove them, but he didn’t let her.

He brought his own hands on top of hers, holding them captive.

‘Why didn’t you tell them that it was I who took your virginity, who fucked you in every way imaginable, who filmed you on your knees? Why?’

She blinked, bringing her eyes to him.

‘You know why,’ she whispered.

‘Why?’

‘Because we’re related. Because you’re my…’

She couldn’t even bring herself to say it. A blush marred her cheeks as she averted her gaze, embarrassed.

‘So what? Do you think I care?’ Michele asked, tipping her chin up with one finger. ‘Do you think I care if we’re related, Zia?’

She didn’t answer, merely wetting her lips as she looked deep in his eyes.

‘It wouldn’t have mattered. Were you my blood sister, and I would still have you,’ he told her unequivocally. ‘Were you my twin, my fucking double. Even then, I would still have you.’

‘Why?’ she inquired in a soft voice. ‘Why would you go so far when you only wanted to hurt me—my family… From the beginning, I was nothing but a tool for you. Why would you…’

‘Because you’re my fucking delirium, Zia. You’re my madness, my greatest folly. But you’re mine, sweet thing. You’re only mine,’ he told her huskily, letting his finger roam around her perfectly sculpted jaw. ‘You belong to me like no woman ever belonged to a man—utterly and perfectly. You know it. Deep down, you know it,’ he said as he brought his other hand to her chest, trailing it down to her heart and feeling the uneven beats—the way it beat for him.

‘It’s not right,’ she shook her head. ‘Nothing about us is right, Michele. You only know how to take, take, take. Only ever take. And the fact that you don’t realize what you did to me, beyond last night, is the issue. You didn’t just hurt me. You…crushed me,’ her voice broke on a whisper.

‘Then let me put you back together,’ he murmured. ‘Let me gather each part of you I crushed and glue it back together.’

He continued to look in her eyes, thinking he was getting somewhere—that he was getting to her.

But as she gave him a tight smile, he saw the truth reflected in her features.

A truth he didn’t want to recognize.

He didn’t let her reply as he moved back, putting distance between them before he did something worse again—before he hurt her again.

‘I’ll be back,’ he said, exiting her room and not looking back.

And he would.

He would be back until he got through to her.

Until she told him she loved him again.

He wouldn’t rest until he heard those words out of her mouth again.

Then, and only then, would he finally be able to be himself again.

That night, Michele went into the woods, using his bare fingers to unearth the necklace, just as he’d buried it. And laying it against his skin, he understood its meaning for the first time.