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Jesus Christ.
Clearing my throat, I force myself to ask something, anything, needing to deflect the feelings he is throwing at me; a virile kind of energy that affects me from my ears to the tips of my toes. “What happened to your chest?” I ask, steadying my breaths on that question. “How did you get shot? You’re still fucking around with your brothers and Jimmy Storm, I take it?”
Jimmy - the great and powerful Jimmy Storm.
All those years ago, I was supposed to keep Bronson from falling further into that world. Into Jimmy’s clutches. I was supposed to be his something else. . .something honest and normal. It is what we discussed. What I promised his brother. Yet another way, I failed him.
When he turns back to the kitchen, I take that moment to close my eyes, holding them for a moment of peace. Opening them again, I observe him stirring the pot of risotto and then spinning the dial until the flame dies out.
The simmering stops.
I know he hates when people discuss his business, but we never had secrets between us. He always told me point blank who he was. Is.
What he does.
And why.
For them.
I think I’m the only one who gets the truth when others find a cocky answer muddled with half-truths and jokes.
“A lot has changed since you left me, Shoshanna,” he says, turning to face me. A cocky grin plays with the corner of his mouth while pride flashes in his eyes. “Clay is a councillor now. My beautiful Max is City Architect, controlling basically every new commercial project. We are inside the bitch now. Jimmy and Dad have tenders over half the District and my little Xander is going to take the bar next year. Kid’s got a brain the size of a planet. There isn’t much they won’t control soon enough.”
Once again, he leaves himself out. “And you?”
He grins harder, a mischievous tick to his lips. “I make sure things don’t get in the way of their happiness. Of their opportunities.”
“Your brothers’ happiness. Your brothers’ opportunities?”
He tilts his head, still amused by my inquisition. “Of course.”
“What about your fucking happiness?” I bite out. “Your opportunities?” My heart hammers in my chest, slamming into bone, trying to claw its way out of my skin. I need to hear he is happy. That what I did didn’t destroy him like it did me. That he was okay after I left. That I didn’t kill not just what was between us, but him as well.
“Not much of a scholar, remember? I was somewhat distracted by a beautiful girl in high school.”
Shaking my head, not buying these excuses, I say, “Don’t blame me. You werevery muchdistracted by Jimmy Storm and that world.”
Scooping up a small amount of risotto onto a fork, he strolls over to me with slow, predator-like strides. I open my mouth instinctively, letting him place the spoon in between my lips like he used to. The warm metal heats my tongue. The flavour of chorizo and minted peas burst to life in my mouth. He stares at my lips as I work the food inside them and the blacks of his eyes grow; the shiny rings of blues and greens are incredibly thin - a glimpse of light banding dangerous black vortexes.
He strokes my face with his gaze, reining in his heated desires. “You have been my distraction from the moment I saw you by the pool, baby. On your belly. With that slip of olive skin between your jeans and your shirt. From the moment I open my eyes in the morning to when I close them again at night, you are my beautiful distraction.”
My heart rushes up my throat.
He drags the spoon out slowly and smears the juices from my saliva and the sauce across my cheek. My breathing becomes uneven. Leaning down, he laps his tongue from my jaw to the corner of my lips, tracing the flavours of me and his food. He stops by my mouth, leaving me a panting mess, wanting to turn my cheek and accept his tongue inside me.
He hums his enjoyment and then leaves me sitting there, my legs shaking violently. Strolling back to the stove, he prepares two bowls, sprinkling the fresh greens on top. He places one bowl in front of me and pours two glasses of wine.
All I can do is watch as the sadness I felt a few minutes ago crawls back into me, settling in deep. He never mentioned his happiness.
Playing with my food, I build up the courage to ask him again. “And your happiness?” I choke out. My breath hitches.
“If my brothers are happy, then I am happy,” he says smoothly as he eats a spoonful of risotto. “You know this, baby.”
My stomach drops. My heart stops.
A lie.
I can see it in his eyes. He loves his brothers. He’s happy they’re happy. But he’s not fucking happy. He wasn’t okay. He wasn’t okay, and it was because of me. Too many emotions run through me. Pain and guilt at the forefront, driven by the knowledge that I hurt this beautiful man, but followed quickly by elation and fury and confusion.
