Chapter 34
LENI
Several tabs are still open on the laptop when I finally push back from the kitchen counter, stretching muscles that have gone stiff from hours of research. I found it here yesterday with a sticky note stuck to the lid simply saying: use it for whatever you need it for.
No signature, but it’s obviously from Romero. The man has a way of providing things without making a big deal about it.
So, inspired—or maybe just restless—I've been diving deep into online courses, potential career paths, anything that might give me purpose beyond being Romero Lombardi's complicated wife. But so far, no luck. With a sigh, I shut the laptop, set Lady Heathcliff gently on the floor, and turn just as the low growl of Romero’s car pulling into the driveway reaches my ears.
And before even thinking it through, I leave the kitchen, my steps quick and eager.
If I thought our conversation at Mom’s place a few days ago would change the dynamics between us, I was spectacularly wrong. He made me say I belong to him, but then he went right back to avoiding me like I’m carrying some deadly plague—and I’m done with that.
I shut the door firmly behind me so Lady won’t follow me out, then cross my arms as I march towards the living room. My heart is already pounding, belly doing ridiculous little flips before Romero even comes into view.
But then he does, and I freeze like someone just dumped ice water over my head.
He’s wearing his usual charcoal-gray suit, tailored to fit him like a second skin. But that’s not what stops me cold or makes my breath catch in my throat.
It’s the blood.
Dark red splatters across the collar of his white undershirt. A faint smear along the side of his jaw, evidence of a hurried wipe that missed a spot. More drops dotting his jacket sleeve, forming a disturbing polka-dot pattern.
“Romero,” I breathe, my voice cracking. “Are you—are you hurt?”
He glances up, seeming almost startled for a second. Then that familiar mask slides back into place, making those green eyes go cold. “No,” he answers, gaze holding mine. “The blood isn’t mine.”
The pit in my stomach doesn’t ease. If anything, it opens wider as my mind starts racing. If it’s not his blood, then… Almost instinctively, I drift closer, my eyes raking over every inch of him. “Then whose blood is—?”
“Leni.” The sharpness in his voice cuts through my question. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.”
Speechless, I, watch him shrug off his jacket and drape it over his arm. Then he moves towards the stairs, clearly intending to walk right past me, and something inside me just—snaps.
It isn’t his blood. And I’m smart enough to realize that means he hurt someone. Or worse. I’m not sure what scares me more—the thought of what he probably did tonight... or how badly I want to know every detail.
Without conscious thought, I grab his arm as he passes, gulping when he glances down at me with those cold eyes. “I want to know. What did you do?”
He raises a brow, a flicker of something there and gone before his face locks into stone. When he speaks, his voice is harder than concrete. “Some fool thought he could steal from me. I taught him better.”
Taught him better. My throat goes dry. “Did you—did you kill him?”
“Yes.” His stare sears mine, the air between us crackling with something electric and dangerous. “Right after I tortured him. I made him suffer so much he begged me to put him out of his misery.”
My lips part on a sharp inhale. I believe him. A shiver runs down my spine, but it’s not from fear. I know Romero now—he wouldn’t have done that unless he had a reason.
Right?
But something doesn’t add up.
Why is he suddenly volunteering information when getting a straight answer from him usually requires an act of Congress?
“Are you trying to make me scared of you? Pulling away from me didn’t work like you thought it would, so now you want to use scare tactics to put distance between us?
” I hesitate for half a second, then drill my index finger into his chest. “Well, guess what, Romero? No matter what you say or do, I’m not scared of you.
You’re making me think you are the one who’s scared. ”
Something seems to snap inside him—I can actually see the exact moment his control fractures.
An unholy light flits through his gaze, and suddenly he’s closing the last breath of space between us, bringing with him the scent of cologne tangled with anger and emotions I can’t read. “Do I look like I’m scared of you?”
“No.” My reply comes out a thready whisper.
His hand comes up to my throat, palm resting there lightly at first, his gaze searching mine.
Then his grip clamps down, so tight I gasp as my air is cut off.
“You should be fucking scared, Leni,” he threatens, his hand squeezing harder and harder until I’m choking, my head going light from the pressure.
Pressure blooms behind my eyes, dark spots dancing at the edges of my vision. My reflexive slaps against his wrist are useless—but I don’t panic. Insane as it is, I know he wouldn’t hurt me. Not really.
“I’ve spent most of my adult life avoiding unnecessary human emotions.
Then you—” His voice cracks slightly. “You show up and turn everything upside down, bring it all out in full force. You’re in my head when you shouldn’t be there.
You’re in my veins, under my skin. You make me feel so out of control. I hate it, I—”
Starved for oxygen, I crush my mouth against his, kissing him with a frantic hunger, trying to steal his air, to suck it from his sweet tongue.
He goes still. Then, slowly, his grip slackens—not all at once, but with a stunned hesitation—before he gives in and kisses me back, like he can’t stop himself.
This is our first kiss since the honeymoon. But I'm too busy trying not to pass out to properly enjoy it, forcing in sharp, desperate inhales through my nose as we kiss.
His hand lingers at my throat, but now it only cups, cradling instead of threatening, while his other arm bands around my waist, yanking me into him like he needs to feel my body against his.
Suddenly it’s all fire and pressure and too much to take, and I tear my mouth from his with a loud gasp, chest heaving as oxygen rushes into my lungs.
“You’re fucking insane,” he breathes against my lips, pressing his forehead to mine. “You should be running from me.”
I twist my fingers into his bloodstained shirt, still gasping softly. “But I’m not, and I won’t,” I whisper. “I’m not scared of you, Romeo.”
He stares at me with this mixture of stunned awe, dark lust, and something that feels dangerously close to affection.
He looks like he would like to choke me again and kiss me in the same breath.
And fuck, I want him to. I want it all—the gentle and the rough.
Whichever one he decides to give me, I’ll take it. I just want him. Period.
I love him.
The realization hits me like lightning, sudden and illuminating and absolutely terrifying. I love this dangerous, complicated, blood-stained man, and there’s no going back from that.
Before I can fully process the magnitude of what I’ve just admitted to myself, his hand tightens on my throat again—not enough to cut off my air supply this time, just enough pressure to remind me who’s in control here.
Except he’s not in control. Not anymore. We both know it.
He starts walking me backwards, and my pulse answers him like a drum as my legs shuffle back.
“I’m nobody’s fucking Romeo,” he grates out.
Then he spins me around until I’m pressed cheek-first to the wall, the cotton of my bra squishing against cool plaster and my sensitive nipples tingling at the friction.
One hand pins my nape while the other slides down, tugging at my zipper. The rasp of it echoes in the quiet, and I shudder as the fabric parts and cool air kisses my spine.
Next, he yanks my dress down and, with a flick that feels practiced, my bra clasp comes undone. And just like that I’m naked, trapped against the wall, and already trembling with want.
Then he takes a step back, and I risk a glance back, just enough to catch the sight of cold steel in his hand. A gun. My stomach drops even as my pulse rockets, because apparently my body hasn’t figured out there’s a difference between terror and desire.
“This is what I would have used to kill that fucker,” he says flatly. “But it was personal, so I didn’t. I’ve taken many lives with this, though.”
The muzzle lands at the base of my spine, and I gasp as a sharp, charged shiver works its way through my body from the cold kiss of the metal. He drags the barrel up slowly, tracing each vertebra like he’s doing a mental countdown.
“It’s still fucking loaded,” he rasps, voice rough and low behind me. “One accidental slip of my finger, and you could be gone. Just like that.”
“You’ll never hurt me.” I don’t know where I get my confidence from.
Here’s a killer at my back with a loaded gun, yet my thighs are sticky with arousal, heart pounding furiously.
Because I know, as certain as breathing, that he’d hurt himself before he ever hurt me. It’s a gut knowledge I don’t question.
The gun slides higher, cool and unyielding against my neck, until the tip presses against my temple. “Still sure about that?” His breath ruffles the air at my nape, and I swallow my moan, my eyes fluttering shut.
“Shoot me then. If you can. I dare you.” More wetness seeps from my core as I lean into the gun, my pulse drumming wildly as his sharp inhale reaches my ears. A second passes, then two… three.
Then—click. The empty chamber snaps louder than any gunshot.
I jolt at the sound, a spike of adrenaline and heat surging through me as I glance back at him. He actually pulled the trigger. My core clenches, and I squeeze my thighs together.
He steps in, chest flush to my back, caging me against the wall. “Still sure about that?” he breathes into my ear.