Chapter 11 #2
I’m dimly aware of low cursing, the sound of the shower door being wrenched open. Then someone is here with me. He’s big and solid, a wall of muscle. Fully dressed and saying my name, pulling me into his arms like it’s where I belong.
“Luna, baby. It’s me.”
The voice is as familiar as the scent, the feel of him. It’s Priest.
Weirdly, I feel safe.
And yeah, that’s fucked up too.
I don’t look at him. His arms are tight, protective bands that somehow feel comforting instead of caging.
Touching them reminds me that I’m naked. Shit. My instinct is to push away from him, but at least this way, he can’t get a full view.
I cling to him, the wide showerhead spraying us both in water. He’s wearing a white T-shirt that is glued to his chest like a second skin. Why is there something so hot about a drenched six-foot-three mobster standing in the shower with me, his blue eyes burning into mine?
“What are you doing in here?” I blurt, the panic subsiding, annoyance with myself taking its place.
He’s got this intense look on his face that I can’t read.
“I brought you breakfast. I called for you when I came in, but you didn’t answer.”
“You could have knocked.”
“I did. You didn’t answer that either.”
“Did you hear the shower running?”
“Yeah.”
Silence falls between us, punctuated by the rhythmic fall of the water on the tiles, on us.
“But you came in anyway.”
His chin goes up. He hasn’t shaved, and the dark stubble makes him look extra dangerous. “Needed to make sure you were all right.”
The emotional whiplash of the last week overwhelms me. I’m angry. I’m resentful. I’m terrified. Everything is one big, sick ball of dread in my stomach.
“I’m not okay,” I blurt. “I’m never going to be okay again. And that’s your fucking fault.”
His, my father’s, and whoever pulled that trigger.
It could have been Priest. Not literally, of course. He was standing right next to me when it happened. But he could have given the order. This isn’t the first time the thought has occurred to me, and I know it won’t be the last.
He catches my chin and tilts my face toward his. “That mouth. You need to watch it, topolina .”
He’s staring at my lips, and for a second, I think he’s going to kiss me. But he doesn’t. Instead, he does something even more surprising, gently running his knuckle along my cheekbone, to my temple. Like a caress.
I must be staring at him stupidly, naked and wet, my breasts pressed into his T-shirt, because he cocks a half grin at me.
“Shampoo.”
It wasn’t a caress, then. He was just wiping away some suds. Still, the gesture was strangely intimate and caring.
“You okay?” he asks.
And I have to blink hard against the stinging rush of tears because I’ve already cried in front of Priest too many times. I’m not about to humiliate myself again. The dichotomy of this man is perplexing, part rough gangster, part gentle lover. I never know which side of him I’m going to get.
“I’m fine,” I bite out. “You can let me finish my shower now.”
A dark brow kicks up. “You sure you don’t need help?”
“Positive.”
He shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
Priest steps away from me, and the look he gives me is scalding. Then he calmly leaves the shower, soaked and hot as fuck. When the bathroom door closes behind him, I exhale and press my forehead against the cold, slick marble wall. I feel like I’m on fire.
Everything about this situation is wrong.
The water runs down my back, and I finish rinsing, trying to forget that Priest just saw me bare-assed naked.
And not for the first time either. Worse, my ovaries are insistent little bitches.
They don’t care that he is a kidnapping Mafia kingpin who’s been holding me captive in a basement bunker for the last week after forcing me into marrying him.
With a low groan of embarrassment mingled with frustration, I scrub my face under the warm water. My stomach growls, reminding me that I’m finally starting to get my hunger back and Priest had mentioned breakfast.
I turn off the shower, wring out my wet hair, and then step out to towel off. My makeup is in a travel bag on the marble counter, another reminder that he is in control of what I’m allowed to have. He’s thorough, and his connections are alarming. It’s a sobering thought, how trapped I am.
How reliant upon him.
I should probably try to stay on his good side, at least until I get out of this hellhole and back into the real world where I have a chance of actually escaping. The first moment I’m alone, I’m going to run as fast and as far as I can. He’ll never catch me.
I get dressed, then throw my damp hair into a messy bun using the lone hair tie I have. I’m about to put on makeup when I realize that’s stupid vanity. I don’t want to look good for Priest. I want to smother him in his sleep.
I want to make him pay for what his family did to my brother.
For what they’ve done to my father.
Except, I’m more confused than ever. Because I don’t know for sure who was responsible for Leo’s murder any more than I know who was behind my father’s.
I throw open the bathroom door, ready to fight. But the scent of pancakes is in the air, and I instantly go soft, like a cat picked up by the scruff of her neck.
Priest set the small table, and he’s standing at it, partially obstructing my view. But I can see there are silver domes dotting the center, plates for each of us. And OMG, do I smell… No. Couldn’t be. Could it?
“We’ve got bacon,” he says, as if he read my mind. “Pancakes. Eggs. Fresh fruit. Hash browns. I think there’s even a Danish. Those are hard to sneak past Saint.”
It’s like Thanksgiving and IHOP had sex and made one amazing breakfast feast of a baby.
For the past week, I’ve been existing on the protein bars he left me on the nightstand every morning.
I could almost cry again, but this time at the prospect of a proper breakfast. It’s my favorite meal of the day.
“Coffee too,” he adds.
“There’s coffee ?”
I haven’t had coffee in over a week, and I would happily surrender my life for one drop of it on my tongue.
I stagger toward the table like an extra on the set of The Walking Dead . “Cream?”
“And sugar.”
“I’m in love.”
He grins. “I know I’m irresistible, but so soon?”
I shoot him a glare. “With the food, gangster. Not you.”
He flattens a palm over his chest. “I’m wounded.”
The tattoos tracing over the back of his hand catch my attention again, along with the fact that he’s changed out of his wet shirt.
“Where’d all the food come from?”
Some of the harshness in his face softens for a second. “ Zia Maria sent it.”
“I think I’m in love with Maria too.”
His eyes narrow. “She’s a bit old for you.”
I shrug just to annoy him. “I love the age-gap trope.”
“The age-gap trope?” he repeats, lip curling in a sneer.
He says it like it’s a foreign language.
“It’s a romance novel thing. Where’s the coffee?”
He steps to the side and reveals a whole carafe of delicious, caffeinated brew. At least, I hope it’s caffeinated.
“It’s not decaf, is it?” I’m already reaching for the handle as I ask. At this point, I would drink anything.
“No. Why? You got a problem with caffeine or something?”
“Not at all.” I pour a steaming stream of coffee into my mug, sighing with contentment. “I’m a grad student. I live on it.”
“Not anymore.”
I set the coffeepot down with more force than necessary. “You can’t just expect me to cancel my future.”
“To cancel it? No. But circumstances change, Luna.”
“Yeah? Well I haven’t changed. And you don’t get to play God with my life.”
“I’m not playing anything. You’re my wife. We’re joining the families. Your place is at my side.”
“It’s too early for crime-lord shit.” I reach for the small jug of cream and pour some into my coffee, then go for the sugar.
“Too early for reality?”
I grab a spoon and stir violently as I sit at the table. “That’s not what this is.”
“Yes, it is, and the sooner you reconcile yourself to that fact, the better off you’ll be.”
The scent of the coffee is teasing me, and I want nothing more than to take a deep sip. But I’m pissed at the cold, ruthless Mafia don who’s watching me with icy, calculating eyes. I want to lash out, to draw blood.
“What is reality? That I’m a prisoner? So you’re going to keep me locked against my will in this basement fortress of yours forever now? That’s called kidnapping, you fucking psycho. The last time I checked, it was illegal.”
A muscle in his jaw clenches. “Watch that mouth of yours. I’ve already warned you it’s going to get you into trouble.”
“Or what?”
“Or I’ll put my dick in it.”
A flood of heat goes straight to my clit. I like the idea of his big cock in my mouth. I like it, and I don’t know what to do with this knowledge. With the fact that his cocky attitude ruins my panties every damn time. What is wrong with me? Stockholm syndrome on overdrive?
I grip the handle of my coffee mug so hard it’s a miracle it doesn’t shatter. “Go ahead, and I’ll bite it off.”
“Oh, baby.” He laughs like I’m a stand-up comedian who just closed the show with her best line. “It’s so much more than a mouthful.”
“Says every guy who’s worried about the size of his cock.”
Priest is still smirking. “I don’t have anything to worry about, and you know it.”
He’s referring to the times I’ve felt that monster dick pressed against me. And he’s not wrong.
But I’m not about to let him get the win.
I shrug. “If you say so, sweetie.”
He goes still. “Did you just fucking sweetie me?”
Apparently “sweetie” is a step too far for callous, kidnapping Mafia dons. I don’t give a shit.
“Yup,” I say, popping the p . “I think I did.”
And then I take a sip of my coffee finally, finally. Like I don’t have a care in the world. And definitely not like I’m currently at this man’s complete mercy, locked in some kind of underground bunker with no release date in sight.