Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 92284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
I push off the couch, closing the distance between us in a few strides. “If I told you everything, you’d run.”
It’s the most truthful I’ve been with her.
She studies me for a long moment, the firelight dancing in her green eyes. “Are you sure about that?”
I lean in, brushing my thumb over her jaw, and I feel her shiver under my touch. “You think you can handle the things I’ve done?” I murmur, my voice dropping. “The blood, the bodies, the lies?”
Her lips part, but she doesn’t answer, and I don’t push her. Instead, I settle back against the couch, my hand resting lightly on her thigh.
“I missed you too,” I admit after a moment. The words feel unfamiliar, like they don’t belong to me, but I mean them.
Her expression softens, the tension in her shoulders melting as she leans into me. Her head finds its place on my shoulder, and for a while, we just sit in silence, watching the fire dance in front of us.
Her hand drifts to my chest, the brush of her fingers tracing the jagged line of a scar across my ribs. She doesn’t ask about it, doesn’t speak at all, but her touch lingers. It’s a quiet, deliberate thing—light as a feather but sharp enough to cut through me.
“You’ve got a lot of these,” she murmurs. There’s no pity or judgment in her tone. Just curiosity. A softness that both cuts and soothes me. “I want to trace them with my finger.”
My hand catches hers, pinning it against my chest. My heart pounds under her palm.
Her lips part, surprise flickering in those sharp green eyes. “So much. They each have a story. A story that made you who you are.”
“Yeah. Some earned. Some stolen.” I let out a breath. “All of them mine.”
Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t pull away. She’s braver than she looks, this beautiful, fiery woman who’s dragged me into her orbit. “Do you ever tell those stories?” she asks, almost teasing.
Almost.
“No.” I shake my head. “But I’ll tell you this much—if anyone ever gave you a scar, I’d put them in the ground before the blood dried.”
Her breath leaves her in a shudder, her cheeks blooming with a heat that matches the firelight. She tries to pull her hand free, maybe to hide how her pulse betrays her, but I don’t let her.
“No one marks you,” I growl, leaning closer until my lips brush her ear. “Not while I’m breathing.”
She finally meets my gaze, a mix of defiance and something softer simmering in her expression. “What if I wanted to leave a mark on you?”
I smirk at her. “You already have, kitten.”
With a satisfied smile, she pads off to the kitchen. “I’m starving.”
“Help yourself.”
I hear her humming to herself, and it makes me smile.
A moment later she returns with a sandwich that looks like… a crime against humanity.
“What the hell is that?” I ask, eyeing the sandwich suspiciously.
“Peanut butter, pickles, and potato chips,” she says, smirking.
“That’s disgusting.”
“Don’t knock it until you try it,” she says, taking a bite and chewing dramatically.
I narrow my eyes, then snatch the sandwich from her hand, taking a bite. I glare at her as I chew, waiting for the inevitable horror to hit, but—damn it—it’s good. “Fine,” I mutter. “It’s… tolerable.”
“Admit it,” she says, grinning.
“Delicious,” I admit grudgingly, shaking my head. “You’re ridiculous.”
She grins wider, her expression finally relaxing, and we settle by the fire, toasting marshmallows and falling into an easy silence.
“So mobsters chill, too? Huh.”
“Call me a mobster again, little queen,” I warn her. “I fucking hate that.”
With a pout, she shakes her head at me. A crazy piece of hair flops in front of her eyes that she blows out impatiently. It’s the cutest damn thing. “You can call me little queen, but I can’t call you a pet name?”
A lazy grin spreads across my face. Goddamn, I love the way she makes me feel. “I didn’t say that.”
“Right,” she says, her arms crossed over her chest. “I can’t call you mobster, and I can’t call you Bratva boy, so what else is there?”
“You could try daddy. Sir? My lord… hey!” Those little throw pillows on the couch are harder than they look. I palm one and toss it to the side before I reach for her. She almost gets out of my grasp, but I catch her just in time and pin her to the couch. “We don’t hit people. We use gentle hands.”
The way she snorts with laughter is so fucking cute. “We? I think you have a double standard.”
I arrange her over my lap so she’s facing me, her green eyes sparkling like emeralds under the dim cabin light, her legs anchored on either side of me. I stifle a groan. I trace the underside of her jaw. “Behave yourself before I have to put you in the naughty spot.”