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My cock hardens at the sight of her looking so innocent, with her feet dangling off the counter, and, at the same time, handling the gun like a pro.
“Did your brother teach you to shoot?” I ask.
She laughs. I wish I could hear the sound.
“Arturo would never let me touch a gun.” She leans forward and waggles her eyebrows. “I told him I was going to a dance class. I even carried a bag with dance shoes and a costume with me, and showed him some moves I learned online so he wouldn’t ask questions.”
“You’re going to keep that gun in your room, but if you are leaving the house, even to go play with the dogs, take it with you.”
“My room?” She pauses, eyes twinkling. “Or our room?”
I’m tempted. So fucking tempted, but can’t give in. I grab her chin and tilt her head up. “Your room, Sienna. I thought you understood that.”
“So we’re just fuck buddies who happen to be married?”
“Something like that.”
She scrunches her nose at me and swats my hand away. “Go to hell.”
I follow her with my eyes as she jumps off the counter and heads toward the door only to stop halfway to the threshold. She stands there for a few seconds, then turns around.
“From this point on, forget the fuck buddies part, Drago. I’m done,” she bites out and cocks the gun I gave her. “If I find you in my room again, you’ll witness firsthand just how much I’ve learned in those classes.”
And then, my sparkling, innocent, ray-of-sunshine wife raises her gun, aiming at the empty milk jug next to me on the counter. An epic boom echoes through the spacious kitchen as the container flies backward and ricochets off the pantry door. Someone screams. Filip and three other men burst into the room with guns drawn. They don’t even pay attention to Sienna, who is still standing in the middle of the kitchen, holding the gun in her hand, and looking cute as a button in her pink sweaterdress and fuzzy slippers. Everyone is yelling, making my head feel like it’s going to explode, but all I can see is my wife. She stares daggers at me, a wicked grin gracing her face. Everything else fades away, as usual, when she’s in the room.
I saunter up to her and grab the back of her neck. She narrows her eyes at me and tilts her chin. My little devil who walks the world disguised as an angel. I wrap my free arm around her waist, pulling her up against my chest in the process, and crash my mouth to hers.
Something thuds on the floor, probably the gun. Sienna’s arms loop around my neck, holding tightly as she returns the kiss. Our tongues battle for supremacy. But then, she suddenly stops and leans away.
“Put me down.”
I loosen my hold, letting her slowly slide down my body.
“Remember—not a foot inside my room,” she says, then bends to collect the gun off the floor and sashays out of the kitchen.
When Sienna is out of view, I turn toward my men, who are on the other side of the kitchen, watching and looking confused.
“Back to work,” I snap.
They put their guns into their holsters and hurry out, passing Keva where she stands in the doorway with her hands on her hips.
“It’s official,” she declares. “You two were made for each other.”
I lay the gun inside the nightstand drawer before shoving it shut.
“That son of a bitch,” I mumble as I slide beneath the duvet and pull it over my head.
My hands are still shaking, so I slip them under the pillow and take a deep breath. I’ve never shot a gun outside of the shooting range before. Dear God, I could have hurt someone. I could have shot my idiot husband by mistake. It’s not like he doesn’t deserve it, but still, just the thought of Drago getting hurt makes me nauseated.
This is not me. I don’t go around threatening people, shooting at stuff, for God’s sake, but that man . . . that damn man is making me lose my shit like no one ever has.
“I’m done,” I mumble into the pillow.
I’m going to pack my stuff and call Arturo to come and get me. The don will probably go apeshit, but I don’t care. I can’t handle this anymore.
Throwing the blanket off, I rush to the dresser and start taking out my clothes, only to stop when I get to the workout gear Drago bought for me. The look on my husband’s face when I walked out of the dressing room wearing the tracksuit was priceless. I drop down on the bed, clutching the matching sweatpants and sweatshirt to my chest. I don’t want to leave. But I don’t want to stay, either. I . . . I don’t know what I want anymore.
My gaze shifts to the phone on the nightstand. I reach for it and hit my sister’s number.
