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She moves toward the elevator.
“Gabriella?” I call, and she turns. “I really am sorry. I called you some horrible things because of my own fears, and I’m really ashamed. I’m hoping we can be friends.”
She smiles, the gesture one-hundred-percent genuine. “You're forgiven. I imagine if I found the man I loved keeping another woman, I would react similarly. I’d like us to be friends, too. I don’t have too many of those.”
“Me either,” I confess quietly.
I stand in the quiet living room for minutes after she leaves, hating how alone I feel. Sighing, I make myself a cup of coffee and nestle into the couch. I scroll through my phone, checking social media mindlessly.
The hum of the elevator pulls my attention, and Vincent walks into the apartment with a large bandage—impossible to miss—stuck to his neck.
“What happened?” I slide my coffee onto the table in front of me, rushing toward him.
Wrapping his arms around my lower back, he pulls me into his body. “Nothing I didn’t ask for.”
Hands on his chest, I push back, staring at him quizzically.
“You said you wanted me branded.”
My eyes narrow.
“Take the bandage off, wife.”
With gentle fingers, I pull at the bandage. Cursive writing has been inked vertically into his neck, the skin red and angry around it.
“Vincent,” I gasp, wanting to reach out and touch the inscription of my name on his skin.
“You like?”
“Yes. Very much.”
Hands sliding to my ass, he bites the corner of his bottom lip. “I’m not convinced.”
“I do love it.” I track each letter slowly. “But a tattoo isyougivingmesomething.”
“And?
“Iwant to giveyousomething. No,” I correct. “I want totakesomething. A brand will ensure you’re scarred with my love.”
Understanding crosses his face, and he hums in approval. “Then do it. Spill my blood, Bianca. Watch me bleed for you.”
I swallow at the fight in his words.
Leaning down, he lifts the leg of his trousers, pulling a knife—sheathed at his ankle—free. Flipping it easily in his hand, he passes it to me, handle out.
I grab it. “Where?”
He drags me over to the couch, removing his jacket before sitting down. “Wherever you want.”
“Your heart.”
“My heart it is.” He pulls his black shirt over his head, throwing it onto the couch.
I straddle his lap, my eyes on his. Lust twists their color, darkening them in a way that makes me nervous. But not nervous enough to stop.
I drop my gaze to his chest, trailing my fingers over his left pec. I kiss the skin above his nipple. Lifting the knife, I run it gently over his skin, and he pulls a breath through his nose heavy enough to make me smile. Tip pointed at his skin, I push, watching a pebble of blood bead beneath the blade.
“That’s it, baby,” he praises.
