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I stare at her. It’s a simple question, yet it’s been ages since I’ve thought about myself in such innocuous terms. “Black,” I reply, my voice low.
Her eyebrows raise, but she doesn’t comment.
“And yours?”
She blushes, and I see her swallowing hard, “Pink.” The contrast between us couldn’t be starker. Her answer shows that she’s a fairy princess and I’m the monster waiting to feast on her.
I nod in response, and we fall silent for a short while. “I’m afraid I’m not a great cook, so I ordered takeout from the diner.” I nod to it on the little dining table.
“That’s fine. Is it from your diner?” She asks.
I nod. “Perks of being the owner.”
“Right, I was going to ask how you own so many businesses in Fordhurst?”
A difficult question to answer. Because I’m a bad man who did bad things and then stole a shit ton of money from the mobster I worked for and took off. I can’t tell her any of that. No one knows about my past, and it’ll stay that way.
“Inheritance,” I reply, keeping it short. The ease with which the lie slips out is disturbing.
She doesn’t need to know the truth. The truth is a beast, a rabid dog that bites and never lets go. It’s a melody of darkness and regret. A symphony of sins too unspeakable to voice. My past is a chain around my neck, forever reminding me of what I once was.
“Oh,” she says, looking disappointed with my one-word answer. “I never asked how old you are.”
I smirk because our age gap is an extra sinful layer to this. I’m thirty-nine years old. And Madison is twenty three according to her fake ID. Whether that part is true or not is another question. “Thirty-nine,” I say.
Her eyes widen slightly. “Oh, I thought you were younger.”
“How old are you?” I demand.
“Twenty-three.”
“Sixteen-year age gap. Is that too sinful for you?” I ask teasingly.
She shakes her head. “No, I think it makes it hotter.”
I chuckle at her brazenness. “Do you want a drink, little doe?”
She nods. “Yes, water, please.”
“No wine?” I nod to the open bottle on the coffee table.
She purses her lips. “I’ll have one glass.” She might need a few more to survive a night with me.
Pouring the wine, I watch as the deep crimson liquid swirls into her glass, a stark contrast against the pale delicacy of her hands.
“Here’s to a memorable evening,” I toast, and her eyes meet mine. In them, I see the dance of innocence drawn to the flame of the unknown. I wish to shield her from the darkness of our world, but tonight isn’t about protection. It’s about staking my claim.
She nods, taking a sip of her wine. “My parents rarely let me drink.”
I arch a brow. “Why didn’t you ask your parents for help?”
She chews on her lip. “Because they’re the ones who forced me to marry my husband.”
The words slip from her mouth like venom, poisoning the air between us. A sharp, cold anger ignites in my veins, hotter and more potent than any whiskey. My hand tightens around the neck of the bottle. “They did what?” I growl, my voice a low rumble of thunder in the silent room. “Those fucking bastards,” I hiss under my breath. Her parents are supposed to protect her, not palm her off to a man who would harm her.
The fury is so palpable I can almost taste it.
She flinches at my words, her doe eyes wide and fearful. She’s seen a glimpse of the monster inside me, and I can only wonder how long it’ll be before she runs screaming into the night. “They’re not good people,” she whispers.
