Bound by my blood

Chapter sixteen

Dragging myself out of bed, I groggily shuffle toward the bathroom, my body protesting with every sluggish step. My head pounds in protest, a dull, insistent ache that only makes my already sour mood worse.

The moment I step into the bathroom, the cool tile beneath my feet sends a small shiver up my spine. My blurry reflection stares back at me from the mirror—bloodshot eyes, smudged makeup, and hair that looks like I fought a war in my sleep and lost.

Lovely.

Grumbling under my breath, I grab the glass cup left on my nightstand and fill it with cold water. The Advil bottle sits beside it, a small mercy in the mess of last night. I pop two pills into my mouth and swallow them down in one go, the cool liquid soothing my parched throat.

As I wipe away the remnants of my smeared mascara, I catch sight of my attire—or rather, lack thereof. My dress and jewelry are missing, replaced by only my lacy underwear and Vincenzo's oversized shirt.

I sigh. He must've undressed me last night.

The thought sends a shiver of something—annoyance? Embarrassment?—crawling up my spine. I shake it off and reach for my black robe, tying it snugly around my waist. With tired fingers, I run a brush through the tangled mess of my hair, wincing when the bristles catch on the knots. I tug until they come free, then twist my hair into a messy bun.

It's a poor attempt at looking presentable, but it's the best I can manage right now.

With a weary sigh, I make my way downstairs.

The low murmur of voices drifts from the kitchen, a mixture of laughter and conversation. I pause at the doorway, hesitating.

Please let it be the maids.

I'm not in the mood to deal with Vincenzo—not yet. I need at least an hour before I can handle any sort of serious conversation.

But as the chatter abruptly stops, my stomach twists with irritation.

I step into the kitchen, my eyes immediately locking onto the last two people I wanted to see—the bitch who attacked me last night and her little lapdog, both perched at the breakfast bar like they belong here.

Someone give me strength...

Ignoring them, I stride toward the fridge and pull out a carton of orange juice. I'm not here for a fight. I just want my juice and maybe a few minutes of peace before dealing with the shitstorm waiting for me upstairs.

One of the girls clears her throat.

I ignore her.

As I pour myself a glass, she does it again—louder this time.

I exhale slowly through my nose, already on the verge of losing my patience.

Finally, I turn to face them, leaning against the counter with my glass in hand. "Do you need a fucking soother or something? Instead of sitting there clearing your throat like a dying cat, just spit it out."

The blonde—Tiffany, or whatever the hell her name is—narrows her eyes and shoots up from her seat.

"Bitch, who do you think you're talking to?" she snaps, her tone laced with arrogance.

I tilt my head mockingly. "You, Tiffany. Who else?"

Her friend frowns, clearly confused. "Who the fuck is Tiffany?"

I roll my eyes. Of course she doesn't even know her own friend's name.

Instead of answering, I grab the entire orange juice carton, abandoning my glass on the counter. On my way out, I snag the box of Oreo O's from the pantry and make my escape to the back garden.