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Ice slides down my spine at the danger in the softly spoken words. I can’t shake my head, he’s holding me so tightly. “Nothing, I—”
“Do not lie to me, Celia. I do not like liars,” he growls.
A gust of wind hits me from the open door, causing me to shiver. Milos lets go of me, stepping further inside. He pulls the door from my numb hand and closes it behind me, all without ever taking his eyes off me. “Tell me. Who hit you?”
It’s happening again, the violence is rolling off him in waves. This is a man who has killed and will kill again—if I give him a name.
I’m afraid, but not of him, and I’m not sure if it makes me naïve or not. Deep down I trust he won’t hurt me. It’s why I felt safe enough to yell at him—it didn’t matter what I said, Milos wouldn’t hurt me. Right now, I’m afraid of what will happen if I give him the name.
I shake my head. “I tried talking to Carlo again about money for school. It didn’t go well. This was my own fault. I was dumb and pushed one of his men. He got embarrassed and…”
“The one with slicked-back hair and a chain around his neck like an extra on a bad mob movie?” Lethal intent flows out of him, inky dark and alive.
How did he know it was Sonny?
The smallest of nods. “He is the type to hurt a woman if his ego was bruised.”
Shit. I shake my head, unable to verbalize the lie. “I deserved it. Please, let it go. If you do something you could start a war. I’m not worth that.”
His frown is so scary I step back from him. “You are worth far more than you could ever imagine. Your father does not deserve your protection from a war of his own making by not protecting you.”
How could he think that? Eyes wide, I shake my head again. “I’m not protecting Carlo. I meanyou. Carlo is relentless when he’s crossed. I am begging you to let this go.”
Yellow touches every inch of my face. He nods. “If it is what you wish.”
“Yes, thank you.” All at once it’s easier to breathe again. “Besides, I have amazing news. I got a scholarship for my entire schooling. Everything I could possibly need is paid for. I’m going to get to go to school and become a veterinarian the way I’ve dreamed of since I was eight years old.”
For the first time he smiles wide. This man is so stunning it isn’t fair. “Congratulations. You deserve it.” He slips off his long black coat.
Wow, once again he’s in black on black. His suit, shirt and tie are all matte, nothingness black. He should be scary with how large he is, yet with the light caressing his honey skin and those yellow eyes soft, the only thing scary is how much I want him.
I take his coat, it’s cashmere and I’m sure costs more than I make in a year. I hang it up on the coat rack by the door.
When I turn back to him, he’s studying the small open-plan living area of the living room, kitchen and small dining area. I have little doubt it’s probably one of the smallest spaces he’s ever had dinner in.
“Thank you, I, um. Do you want to set the food down? I’ll grab some forks. Do you want something to drink? I have sweet tea, water, and a box of wine that I swear tastes good,” I offer.
His chuckle skims up my tummy and causes my nipples to tighten in need. “I will take water, thank you.”
By the time I’m back from the kitchen with a few forks and a glass of water for him and tea for me, he’s unpacked everything and taken the lids off the plastic rectangular containers. I sit down across from him at the table.
For a few minutes we sort everything out and eat in companionable silence. Me with my noodles and him with beef and broccoli.
Koshka appears, meowing like mad to be held or for me to share with her. It was always one or the other with her.
“She has grown far more than I thought she would in only two weeks.” Milos smiles down at her.
I can’t take my eyes off his smile. “They do that. It feels like you blink and miss seeing them grow, time speeds past.”
“It’s not that we have little time, but more that we waste a good deal of it.” We both watch the kitten, who has finally stopped meowing. She yawns and goes down to his feet, lays her head on his shoe and closes her eyes.
“I think she likes you. Who said that?” I ask.
“Seneca,” he murmurs as he sips his water.
It’s the last name I would have thought he would give. “You read Seneca? The Roman Stoic philosopher?”
A soft chuckle. “The Russian philosophy I grew up with was from people who were not as successful as the Romans and Greeks at creating and maintaining kingdoms. As painful as it was to accept, if I did not learn a different way, I stood to lose everything.”
