“No, it doesn’t. But it means I’m not alone. It doesn’t matter how old you were; you’re never alone in that.”
Lifting her face, she meets my gaze with watery eyes; pools of desire and sadness I find myself wanting to drown in.
Blinking, she breaks the spell. And fuck if I don’t immediately want to cast it again, pull her into me for all of eternity, stitch her inside my skin where I can keep her safe.
“Who killed your mom?”
I cup her cheek, the truth barreling through me before I have a chance to stop it—to consider the consequences. “I did.”
Caroline
His dark chuckle makes the muscles in my thighs cramp, clenching far too often in his presence. I should be surprised, maybe even disgusted, at his admission, but I can’t help feeling... envious.
Of his strength, the ability to carry on and create a life for himself utterly separate from the demons haunting him. How he somehow created a new soul from the tainted one given to him, becoming one of the most lethal, dangerous, richest men in the entire state.
Because as much as I like to think my life is unaffected by the things my father and his friends did, by this world of crime and evil, I can’t deny that I’ve lost a significant amount of my life to him.
To my father, my plan for revenge, the sleepless nights I spent plotting and healing, only to find someone else to cut me open, make me vulnerable, pluck the revenge from my hands.
But I don’t think Elia wants to see me that way. He likes the fire within me, my passion, and spark, and it somehow eases the canyon in my mind where thoughts of a better life go to die.
I don’t feel suffocated, like allowing him to step in somehow puts me in his debt. If anything, that he’s aware of my list—and the intent behind it—and refuses to hold it against me, or look at me like I’m a monster, makes me feel like an equal.
Like he loves me.
Absently, I cradle the bottom of my flat stomach.
“For the record,” he says after a long, almost painful silence stretches between us. Worry creases his brows like he thinks he’s losing me. “I’m not a psychopath. I don’t kill indiscriminately, and I didn’t kill my mother for the fun of it. They left us there, bleeding out from more stab wounds than I could reasonably attend to, and there was this horrible wheezing sound coming from her.”
He sucks in a shuddered breath, and I pull my body from his, hiking a leg up and sliding onto his lap, straddling him. As I let my palms rest on his chest, he continues his story while trailing his fingers up the outside of my thighs.
I feel myself leaking on top of him, a mixture of his come and arousal, and it makes my womb clench so hard that I see stars.
“She was seizing, her body locking up, crying out in absolute agony, begging me to finish the job. So, I did, because I loved her and couldn’t bear to watch her suffer. There was nothing else I could do, and the weight of that has followed me like an engorged rain cloud ever since.”
“That’s why you wanted to help me at Luca’s party. Some kind of atonement.”
“That’s what it started as, yeah. But, Caroline, I fucking swear to you, it’s become so much more. I’m in lo—”
I bend down, sealing his lips with my own. As I pull back, swiping my thumb along his chin, a soft smile grows on my face. “I know, Elia. I know.”
Sitting up, I straighten my back and grab both of his hands, settling them over my stomach, palms flat against my skin. It feels so fucking good to have his hands on me, the fear that lurks within me is almost nonexistent.
But not entirely.
Like a stalker lying in wait, it sits. Watching. Looking for the first opportunity to fuck everything up.
And as a question dawns on him, eyes flickering between his hands and my face, a tender expression melting his features in a way that makes my heart soar, I roll off him before he has a chance to speak.
“Caroline—”
I struggle to my feet, one leg getting caught on the edge of the mattress, and shimmy into my dress from before, purposely avoiding looking at him. Nevermind the fact that his impressive dick is still out, covered in me. I know that if I look back, he’ll see right through me. And, unfortunately, anxiety is winning out.
I scrape my teeth over my lip, staring a hole in the floor. “Do you think you could show me?”
“I—show you what?”
“How to kill my father?”
THE NIGHT BEFORE my father’s fundraising gala, Juliet and I stop by Jupiter Media to help Liv stuff invitations for her upcoming launch party for some indie artist’s upcoming album.
My arms ache and feel heavy from a full week of practicing self-defense with Elia. Apparently, our house has a home gym tucked in the back, and I’ve lived there all this time, completely unaware. We’ve kept it light, focusing primarily on defensive weapon strategies and stamina, though he still has no idea why we aren’t exercising with more vigor.
But he’s been wearing me out at night, too, since I’ve agreed to start sleeping in his bed. And I refuse to give up his energetic dick, so I’m trying to keep all other aspects of physical exertion to a cool minimum.
Liv clucks her tongue when I note I still haven’t told him about the baby, licking across one of the lilac envelopes embossed with her company logo. “You’re such a chicken.”
I snort because that’s exactly the role I’ve purposely cast myself in. Makes it harder to point to me as a suspect if no one thinks I’m capable. “It’s a big deal.” She doesn’t remember that night at Crimson, and I never bring it up.
“Yeah, but I think you’re blowing it out of proportion. Bawk-bawk.” Juliet sets a new stack of envelopes at the center of the conference table, tossing me a wink as she pretends to flap her wings. “But seriously, most husbands would be ecstatic about this kind of thing.”
“Exactly. Didn’t you and Elia talk about having kids before you got married?”
“I’ve told you both; this marriage isn’t conventional. We didn’t talk about much of anything.”
“It wasn’t conventional at the start, but you’ve been together, what, ten weeks now? You’ve spent a lot of time together, and you’ve still not talked about kids? Birth control? Nothing?”
I shrug. “It never came up.”
Liv sighs, pulling a fountain pen from her blouse pocket and signing her name at the bottom of the invitation. She blows on the ink for a moment, and then stuffs it into an envelope, continuing the sealing process. “Okay, let’s talk about how you feel. Do you want to keep it?”
“I think so.”
“Do you want him to want to keep it?”
My hand draws invisible circles on the table. “Yes.”
“So, what’s the problem?”
“I don’t know what he wants.”
“You, Caroline.” Liv points a manicured finger at me, and Juliet nods her agreement. “We’ve all seen how that man looks at you. It’s enough to make me wet, and I haven’t been attracted to a man since middle school. Stop pussyfooting around and just tell him.”
Feeling simultaneously scorned and empowered, I move on to the next invitation. We work in silence for a few moments, and as I scan over the artist’s name for the millionth time, curiosity wins out. “Okay, who the hell even is this Mia Lombardi?”
Liv smirks. “She’s only the greatest Irish-Italian indie songwriter in the freaking country. Seriously, you need to get out from under that rock you’ve wedged yourself under.”
“Irish-Italian sounds like a great idea for a restaurant,” my sister murmurs, fiddling with her pile of invitations.
I glance at Juliet, eyebrows drawn in, before turning back to Liv. “I don’t like indie music.”
“Well, you’re in the minority here. She’s mainstream indie, like Lorde and Lana del Ray, kinda. Does everything herself, from writing to recording, and even producing. Moved to L.A. at eighteen and happened to get lucky.”
“Luck
of the Irish, am I right?” Juliet snickers and I watch as she takes a swig from an insulated water bottle, wondering if she honestly thinks I can’t smell the alcohol inside.
Liv blinks at her, sliding her gaze back to me with an eyebrow raised. I shake my head slightly. Whatever Juliet needs to get through the summer at home, I can’t begrudge her.
God knows, a little drinking problem would’ve helped me. And as long as she isn’t blacking out, who is she really hurting?
“Anyway,” Liv says, picking up a dozen envelopes and pushing them into a neat stack to her right, “my dad was in Houston during her last tour and happened to meet her at a smaller gig. He mentioned Jupiter, and she said it sounded like a great business and a good way to give back to the black community, so she hired us to do her album release. So, here I am, almost single-handedly running this fucking show because I gave people the last week of July off. Because not only am I the boss, but I’m also an absolute dumbass.”
“I’ve known you for, like, a decade. I can’t imagine you letting your interns help, even if they wanted to.”
“I’m letting you help, and you have no idea who we’re even working for.”
“You’re letting us help with physical labor. Why haven’t you pitched any other part of your launch plan?”
She smirks. “Maybe you have a point.”
Laughing, I ball up a torn envelope and toss it at her head. She swipes a moment too late, giggling, and for the briefest moment in time, it’s easy to forget everything else outside this conference room—all the pain, the worry, the stuff that keeps me up at night.
I feel normal, again. Almost like no one ever broke me in the first place.
Later that night, I stand at the kitchen sink, watching my husband roll ground pork around in his palm. “I’ve never seen meatballs with milk in them.”
He’s trying to teach me how to make them, but I keep getting distracted by the way his back muscles strain against his t-shirt. Black, but still, he gets less and less buttoned-up around me with each passing day. The outline of a gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans sends a ripple of desire through me.
“You’ve never had mine, bella. Americanized meatballs are always so dry and spherical; adding half-and-half makes them a little sticky and wonky, so they don’t roll right off your plate.” Cocking an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth turns up as he catches me drooling.
“Uh-huh.” I avert my eyes, dropping butter into the skillet, watching it crackle and begin to melt under the heat. “What’d you say this is called?”
“Frikadeller. It’s not my mom’s original recipe, but it’s close enough to the ones I can remember her making for me as a kid.”
My stomach twists, and I press my thighs together in an attempt to relieve the throb between them. There’s something so fucking hot about this made man being domestic, that if I weren’t already pregnant, I think the sight before me might result in the same predicament.
“Aren’t meatballs supposed to be Italian, though? Like, isn’t that kinda your thing?”
“Pasta is kind of our thing, although that’s debatable, too. Meatballs transcend culture, Caroline.”
“Maybe all the baking’s gone to my head.”
“Well, in any case,” he says, dropping the pork in his hand into the skillet and reaching for another handful of the mixture, “the main difference is spices. If I were making them with my Italian heritage, I’d add Italian seasoning, parmesan cheese, maybe even some olive oil. Frikadeller uses nutmeg and sage. And I never mix meats, because the all-pork method with these makes them more savory, which works really well with the gravy.”
He drops more into the skillet, pressing the tops down with a fork, so they resemble tiny patties. I chew on the inside of my cheek and resist the urge to reach out and slide my arms around his neck, distracting him from the task at hand.
“Does your dad do a lot of cooking?”
Shaking his head, he adjusts the heat and moves down the counter to work on mixing the gravy ingredients. “Not since I moved out. I guess, with just him in the house, he doesn’t see the point. But for me, it makes me feel connected to my ancestors. And my mom.”
“How come this is the first time I’m seeing you make anything?”
“Baby, you hogged my kitchen for weeks when you moved in. I was scared to ask you to move over; sure you’d chop me up in my sleep and add me into a batch of banana nut bread.”
Laughter bubbles up in my throat, and I move closer to him, seeking out his warmth. Our shoulders brush as he measures flour in a glass cup. My tongue darts out subconsciously, roving over my lip while he works, and he glances at me from the corner of his eye.
“You okay?”
I clear my throat, trying to blink through the fog of need pulsing through my body. “I’m good.”
He straightens, dumping the flour into a ceramic bowl. “Okay, well, stop looking at me like you want to eat me. I won’t be responsible for my actions, otherwise.”
Pulling my lip between my teeth, I rake my eyes over his body the way I want to run my tongue over it. “What if I do want to eat you?”
A low growl rips from his throat; he shoves the bowl back on the counter, slipping his arms around my waist and hauling me up. I wrap my legs around him, pulling his erection flush against me through our clothes, and he sets my ass on the edge of the counter.
His hands tangle in my hair, tilting my head back so he can feather kisses along the column of my throat. “Fucking hell, mio amore. Why does this just keep getting better?”
My mouth parts as if it has an actual answer to give, but nothing comes out. I don’t know how to tell him it’s pretty hard to improve what already feels perfect, without also addressing the secret I’m keeping.
As if on cue, a sharp pain cuts across my stomach, and I hiss against it, my body arching into Elia’s. He moans, crashing his lips into mine, and I swallow the sound, wishing I could keep it for myself. Play it on repeat any time I need him.
He pulls back after a few minutes of our tongues sparring, cupping my cheeks. “I’ve been thinking.”
“That’s dangerous,” I quip, my lips curling up.
He rolls his eyes, one hand slipping down to grip my throat. Leaning in, his tongue slides from my chin to my eyebrow, making my knees quiver. “You said you’d never given a hand-job before. Does that go for mouth stuff, too?”
“Yep.”
His gray eyes flash, fire dancing in their depths, and he drags my face to his again, kissing me harder than before. It feels like being branded—bruising and swelling in the most delicious way possible, and I swear I feel it in my soul.
“The food’s gonna burn,” I murmur against him.
Teeth latching onto my bottom lip, he gives a wicked grin. “Let the whole goddamn world burn, baby.”
And we do.
He takes me to his room, and soon we’re a panting, quaking mass of limbs and muscle, sweaty and grunting our pleasure until I’m sure he’s fucked my brains out. My head hangs off the side of the mattress as he comes deep inside me, a low warmth filling my stomach.
The smoke detectors sound not long after, and I move to get up and go to the kitchen; he pulls me back, positioning us beneath the covers and pressing his lips into my hairline. He wraps one arm around my shoulders and curls the other over my waist, tugging me into his body, and I settle into it, accepting everything—my feelings, our situation. My secret.
I’m keeping it out of fear, but less because I don’t think he’ll want it and more because I’m sure he will. And it’s hard to reconcile that with everything else that’s happened, everything he is and what it means for me; I can’t imagine he’ll allow me to go through with the plan to kill my father.
Still, each second that passes creates a hole in my heart because I want to share this experience. I want to see how it morphs him, how he extends his feelings for me into what we created.
Because, Elia may have
blood on his hands, but it’s not mine. It’s not that of the innocent or the damaged.
And I’ve never felt safer or more loved than I do at this very moment.
“Shouldn’t we be concerned about that?” I ask after a silence plagued by beeping.
“Leo will get it.”
I nod, burrowing deeper into his side, wishing I could just climb inside him and live. I’m just starting to drift off to sleep, working out in my brain how drastically everything has changed between us in these short weeks when I hear the softest confession.
“I fucking love you, Caroline.”
Panic seizes my chest, causing muscles to tighten as my eyes spring open. I sit up, holding the comforter against my chest, and blurt out the first thing that comes to my brain. “I’m pregnant.”
His face remains still for several beats. So long, I’m not even sure he heard me. He just stares, mouth in a firm line; I start to pull away, anxiety edging its way into me all over again, when he breaks into a wide smile, grips my shoulders, and flips me onto my back.
“Are you serious?” He hovers above me, eyes bright and hopeful. I swallow, nodding, unable to speak. “How? We haven’t—”
“That first time took, I guess.”
“Fuck, yeah. You’re stuck with me now, baby.”
Lowering his face to mine, he captures my battered lips in a deep kiss, angling my head so he can slip his tongue inside and sweep around. Hoisting my left leg into his hand, he bends my knee, using his other hand to tease my pussy. And without warning, he pushes inside, sinking like a capsized ship with no other choice.
Sometime later, the smoke detectors quiet. But I hardly notice, too wrapped up in the love that’s surging through me.
CAROLINE’S BODY SAGS against the wall as I wrench my cock from her, yanking my pants up over my hips. She struggles to regulate her breathing, and a loud knock on the bathroom door draws me from the fog I’m dragged into when I bury myself inside of her.
“Sorry, I can’t seem to help myself anymore.” I drop my lips to her sweaty forehead; she tastes salty and spent, and it’s almost enough to make me hard all over again, but I hold back for a few reasons.
Sweet Surrender: A Dark Mafia Enemies-to-Lovers Romance (King's Trace Antiheroes Book 1) Page 21
