Page 115 of Bloodlust

I was wrong.

I shouldn't have judged a book by its cover.

At least not this book.

This book ended up being a completely different tale than I had originally thought.

Every preconceived notion, every piece of evidence, every stamped and dated document was wrong.

I swallow away a lump in my throat, looking at the blown up photo of Camilla as the priest begins to speak.

"May the Father of mercies, the God of all consolation, be with you," he states, opening the bible on the podium. "We gather here today to celebrate the life of Camilla Bianco, who has now returned to her home with Our God, The Father. Eternal rest grant unto them..."

Tuning out the priest's ramblings, I stare at theimage of Camilla, unable to rip my gaze away from her charcoal eyes. They were so dark. Like two pieces of coal.

But I knew the moment I saw her that they'd turn into diamonds.

It's almost 10 a.m. She'll be here soon. I've read her file. I'm prepared. I'm always fucking prepared. Shedding my sweat-soaked gym shirt, I toss it to the corner of my new office and grab a crisp clean button-up. This isn't going to go well. I already know it. Based on the psych profile I ran, I doubt the woman will agree to therapy. She'll fight it. I know she will. That's okay. I have the upper hand. I know her type. I've studied her.

I'm prepared.

The door to my office opens quietly, but the change in the atmosphere is thunderous as if God waved his hand and there was light. I turn around, clasping together the last couple of buttons as I stare at her, and the thick, smoking aura that radiates from her body.

"Apologies," I say, keeping my breath even despite the fact I've never seen anyone quite as exquisite in my whole damn fucking life. "I didn't hear anyone come in."

"I didn't knock," she whispers, lifting her head away from my chest, her lecherous eyes causing my cock to twitch. "Sorry," she smirks. "Well—" she licks her plump red lips, "—not that sorry."

At that moment, I knew I'd be the one that would be sorry. I would be the one begging for forgiveness. And I never beg. I never plead. I never let someone control me.

But those lips. That quick tongue. And those deep, brown eyes that reflect the pain of my own. It was only a matter of time before she had me on my knees.

Begging her for mercy.

I was going to fail.

I couldn't let that happen.

"You're going to have to find another way to get to Bianco," I tell Fitzgerald as I storm into his office. "She's not biting. Maybe we can?—"

"Make it happen, Malcolm," Fitz states. "Any means necessary." He reaches into his desk, handing me a ticket. "She'll be attending this event on Friday. Be there. Talk to her. Make her see that she needs your help. She's a woman playing a man's game, Malcolm. Use that. Reel her in."

It's not easy to catch a shark.

But she was never a shark.

Sharks don't cry.

Sharks don't feel emotions.

She was human. Always a human.

"Christ sake!" I rush toward Camilla as her doorman hovers behind me. "Go find a first aid kit." My frantic gaze flits across the gashes on her knuckles, the blood streaming from her skin. I look up at her fluttering lids. Fuck! "Camilla?" I loop my arms around her waist as I lift her onto the bed. "Shit." I glance at the bottle on the floor, shaking my head. What a horrible solution. Disgusting. Just like my father. "Stupid girl," I mutter, anger stewing in my veins. I cup her cheek. "Can you hear me?"

"I don't...wa...is."

"Words, Camilla."

"Why…? Why me?"