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“Thank you for saving me,” she says after a while, her eyes so beautiful I can’t look away even though I definitely should when she looks at me like that … because it makes me want to devour her.
“I would kill a hundred of those fuckers if it meant keeping you safe.”
She tugs at her dress, pulling it farther over her thighs. But every inch of skin exposed is like a feast to my eyes. And the thought that someone else dared to touch it makes me want to murder them.
I guess you can take the mobster out of the mafia, but you can’t take the mafia out of the mobster. Even after three years of forgetting who I am, my body still remembers how to shoot a gun, how to aim a knife.
You don’t unlearn skills that come naturally to you.
Just like you don’t unlearn to want someone you’ve wanted since forever.
Every once in a while, I glance at her, but she keeps looking out the window, avoiding my gaze like the plague, and I wonder why.
All I wanted to do was make her feel good. Make her want me the way I want her.
But every time I get close to unfolding the truth, she pulls further and further away from me.
And I don’t understand why.
Even when she told me she enjoyed what I did, she still won’t look at me.
She’s got her arm perched up against the window, her wrist on full display as her hand is locked underneath her chin. And my eyes can’t help but focus on that white mark on her skin.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“What?” she says, casually tucking down her arm.
“That mark on your wrist.”
Her eyes widen. “What mark? There’s no mark.”
I throw her a damning look. “That’s a scar.”
Chapter 29
Jasmine
* * *
Oh, God.
He saw.
He definitely saw.
There’s no way I can hide it now.
“I’ve seen it before. When you were on my kitchen table,” he says.
I want to bury my head in the sand and forget I was ever even here.
“What is it?” he asks.
“It’s just a scar,” I say, trying to downplay it.
“No, it’s not. You don’t just accidentally get two lines on both your wrists.”
“Stop,” I say.
