She pulls her knees to her chest. The oversized shirt rides higher. A sliver of lace. Black lace.
Fuck.
The atmosphere between us tightens until every breath feels like a choice.
"I can't sleep," Gemma says. Her voice is defiant. Angry. Good. I want her angry. I want her fighting. Because if she softens, I will break.
She swings her legs over the edge of the bed. Her bare feet hit the dusty floorboards.
"Stay on the bed." The command is a low growl.
She ignores it. Of course she does. She is a force of nature. A woman who built a business from scratch on the South Side. She doesn't take orders from men who kidnap her into abandoned hotels.
"It's freezing," she mutters, rubbing her arms. The oversized shirt slides down her arm, revealing the smooth curve of her shoulder. "And the bed smells like a crypt."
She walks toward the gilded mirror leaning against the far wall. The glass is spider-webbed with cracks. The silver backing is flaking off.
I track her every movement. My vision narrows. The sway of her hips. The perfect curve of her ass hidden beneath my cotton shirt. The need to claim, to anchor her to me, drowns out the tactical layout of the room.
I stand up.
My boots are solid on the floor. The sound makes her stop. She turns to face me.
Her dark hair is a wild, beautiful mess around her face. Her eyes blaze with defiance, though the slight tremble in her hands betrays her fear.
"Don't pace around me like I'm a problem to solve," she snaps. "I'm not one of your tactical operations."
"You are a target," I rumble, closing the distance between us. Five steps. Four.
"I am a chef with a destroyed truck!"
Three steps. Two.
"You’re under my protection. Entirely." The words tear out of my throat. No filter. No restraint.
She backs up. Her shoulders hit the wall next to the cracked mirror.
I plant one fist against the rotting wallpaper beside her head. A single anchor point. My other hand stays locked at my side. My control is fraying, the professional instinct to protect warring with the urge to dominate before he destroys it.
She gasps. Her chest heaves. My shirt stretches across the swell of her breasts. The nipples are tight, pressing against the fabric. Begging for my mouth.
I lean in. The scent of sweet orange and warm cumin engulfs me. It destroys the last functioning brain cell I possess.
"You belong to me," I whisper. My lips are a fraction of an inch from her ear. "The Bellantis come for you, they die. The city comes for you, it burns."
Her hands come up. Palms flat against my chest. She tries to push me away, but the touch is a match thrown into a powder keg.
Her heat radiates against my chest. The friction of her palms over the small, jagged mark on my upper right chest. She traces it. Her fingers tremble.
"You're insane," she breathes.
"Yes."
I crush my mouth down on hers.
Our mouths collide with a desperate, violent hunger.
There is no gentleness. I don't know how to be gentle. I am built for war, and she is the only soft thing I’ve ever touched. I consume her gasps, my tongue claiming her mouth with authority.
