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The strange thing is that she didn’t have that look on her face in the beginning. It appeared the next day after she’d woken up from the surgery. It’s like something switched in her and she began avoiding my advances and jerked every time I reached out to her.
She let me put my mouth on her, listened while I told what I wanted from her and she agreed. There was no fight in her then but now...
Now I fucking don’t know what to think.
And the worst part is that while she’s trying to avoid me, she’s at the same time dangling herself in front of my face like an edible toy. Throws sultry glances my way when she doesn’t think I’m looking, breathes my name under her breath like it’s a plea for me to give it to her inch by inch.
I don’t know what the hell she wants. It aggravates me. And an aggravated mobster is not a pretty thing. It’s not a sight I want her innocent eyes to see. She’s already been through too much and all I want is to care for her and cherish her.
But in order to do that, she’d actually have to let me without acting like I’m some...
Murderer.
Hell...is that what this is? Is my brave Skyla scared?
The thought of her being wary of me is painful but maybe it’s me who’s putting too much pressure on her. My focus comes back to the presence when Skyla says,
“I don’t know about the paint.” She sucks her cheeks in and looks guilty again like she knows she’s giving me a hard time. “You see, I want the walls to be pink.”
“I bought pink.”
She gawks. “But you prefer b...black. Or s...silver.”
“I want you to be happy. And comfortable and satisfied. With me.”
Inhaling, she swiftly turns around and gives me her back. “Put the groceries in the kitchen for me, please.”
****
Slamming the cupboard, I let out a curse. I should be in bed with Skyla right now. Screw dinner and screw eating when what I need to be doing is screwing and eating Skyla. Groaning, I slam the cupboard again, not noticing Skyla’s walked into the kitchen.
“What did that cupboard ever do to you?” she asks with a weak smile as she wraps her arms around her. “Let me guess, you don’t want to make dinner.” She shrugs. “No worries, I’ll do it.”
My eyes narrow as I take her in and suddenly I’m provoked by her sheer presence, by the way she dresses, by the softness of her skin and the plumpness of her lips. She sneaks past me and she’s so damn small I can do whatever I want to her.
Our size difference is laughable. I feel like a giant monster in front of her, like I plucked her from the sky to have my way with her. If I wanted to I could put my hands on her and pull her close and she wouldn’t be able to stop me.
She’s under my mercy but I don’t want to take advantage of it. I don’t want to corner her. Nobody corners an angel. Not even a mobster. And not even a mobster who wants said angel so fucking bad it feels like he’s being dipped in acid over and over each time she denies him.
A part of me wants to let her know how much she means to me. How much I’ve risked for us to be together. I’ve told the boss about our relationship and he could’ve killed me on the spot. My contract says that my identity needs to remain hidden and I’ve broken a rule.
But I broke it for Skyla and I explained my full intentions. Boss eventually agreed. And he agreed because I told him I was going to make her my wife. When I made that promise I was positive about the future but now everything’s so fucking off.
Skyla’s arms shake a little as she pulls the wrapper off the plastic boxes. I don’t cook and I don’t want her to exhaust herself which is why all she needs is to put it in the oven.
“This looks tasty,” she murmurs, turning on the cooker and I cross my arms over my chest.
“You look tastier.”
Licking her mouth, she lets out a nervous laugh and pretends she didn’t hear me. “You’re making me gain weight. I’ll probably wobble my way out of this place when time comes.”
I ignore the last part on purpose. “You’ve been shot,” I say in a grave tone. “You need to regain your strength.”
“I am. Thanks to you” She floats around in the kitchen as if feeling restless. “So, what I said about leaving...”
“We’ve talked about this,” I snap. “You know where I stand.”
“But...”
