Page 1 of Thin Lines (Donati Bloodlines 2)

Calisto Donati

Calisto had never been a fan of pain, but he found it provideda certain relief.

It was a high that couldn’t compete with anything elsehe experienced. That was why he fought bare-knuckled, why he drove fast,despite knowing he might crash, and why he still enjoyed looking at Emma Donati—nomatter her current status.

Pain felt good.

He might have been a fool for doing so, but as long ashe got what he wanted from it, he didn’t really care.

When he fought, he was given release. When he drove,he was given freedom. When he looked at Emma, he was given memories.

All of them brought a certain level of pain. All threemight kill him someday.

Calisto glanced at Emma, taking her in again when shedidn’t know he was looking.

He realized then that only one might actually be worthdying for.

Emma Donati

Emma kept her gaze on the book in her lap, pretendinglike there wasn’t an argument going on across the room. She had become terriblygood at acting like she didn’t hear.

Calisto watched her out of the corner of his eye whilehe argued on with Affonso.

She was too focused on Calisto to care about theirfight.

His anger. The tightness of his jaw. Searingsoul-black eyes.

The two men were not the same. They might have sharedblood, but their hearts were entirely different. One man never let her out ofhis sight when he was nearby. The other acted like she didn’t exist.

This was what it was like, she realized, to be in lovewith someone she couldn’t have.

Calisto Donati would never be hers.

This wasn’t a fairy tale that would end happily.

They weren’t star-crossed. They were impossible.

Calisto

There was something to be said for the sting of pain.It provided a heavy rush of adrenaline. It swept through the bloodstream like adrug, fast in some spots, slower in others.

Pain was a reminder of life.

It couldn’t be felt after death.

Maybe that’s why Calisto enjoyed the brutality of fighting.The satisfying contact of fists to skin, followed by the sharp gasp of painfrom the bastard taking the hits. A crisscross patchwork of scars on theknuckles that only healed long enough to close before they were opened in yetanother match. The ache in his kidneys that stayed for days after a match wasover, and the yellow tint to his skin where bruises were fading.

The violence.

The blood.

Maneuvering, avoiding, and yet the pain still came.

It was almost like dancing, but better.

Far better.

Smack, duck, block, throw, smack.