10. Lachlan #3
"You're trying to own me." She stands up from where she's been sitting at the kitchen island.
I can see the exhaustion in her face. "And I'm too tired to argue about it anymore.
Fine. I'll check in with Rian. I'll follow your rules.
I'll be the good little prisoner in your beautiful cage.
But don't pretend this is about my safety, and don't pretend you're doing this for me.
You're doing this for you, because you can't stand the thought of losing control.
You need to know that I'm here and I'm yours and I'm not going anywhere. "
She walks away before I can respond, and I'm left standing in the kitchen watching her leave again.
My hands grip the edge of the counter hard enough that my knuckles go white.
I can feel the frustration building in my chest, the feeling that nothing I do is right.
Every attempt I make to protect her just pushes her further away.
But underneath that frustration is the never-ending desire.
Even angry, I can see that she still reacts to me.
I can see the way her breath catches when I get too close, the way her pupils dilate when our eyes meet.
Her body responds to mine even when her mind is telling her to run.
The sexual tension between us is unbearable, and I want her so badly it's like a physical ache, a constant throb of need that I can't satisfy.
She's made it clear that she doesn't want me, that she sees me as just another jailer, just another man trying to control her.
I need a distraction. I can't keep thinking about her like this.
I've rubbed my cock raw over the past three days thinking about her.
It's literally sore right now, aching not only from the stubborn erection that I get whenever I'm near her, but also from how many times I've come since bringing her onto that plane.
If I fucked her right now, it would hurt almost as much as it would feel incredible, but goddamn, if she'd let me, I wouldn't care.
I need to focus on something else besides my recalcitrant wife. Clearly, also something besides planning and readying myself and my men for the war that's coming, because even then, I can't stop thinking about her.
But the one other thing I have is my son.
And I want to start building a relationship with him.
Bonding with him, so we can start to make up for as much of the lost time as possible.
I can't get those nine years back, but I can try to make the most of every bit of his childhood that's remaining.
He's never had a father, and I want desperately now to be one for him.
I find him in his room, sitting on the floor with a handheld gaming device, his dark hair falling into his eyes as he concentrates on whatever game he's playing.
He looks up when I knock on the open door, and I can see the wariness in his expression.
He's not sure whether to be afraid of me, curious about me, or some combination of both.
"Hey." I try to sound casual and not to come across as threatening or overwhelming. Difficult as it is at this point, I try to remember what it was like to be nine years old. "Can I come in?"
He hesitates, then nods. I walk in and sit down on the edge of his bed, keeping some distance between us so I don't crowd him. "What are you playing?" I ask. That seems like a safe topic that won't trigger his defenses.
"Mario Kart." His voice is uncertain, like he's not sure if he's allowed to talk to me or if this is some kind of test.
"I used to play that when I was your age. I was terrible at it. Always drove off the edge of the track."
He almost smiles at that, just a tiny quirk of his lips. I feel something warm bloom in my chest at the sight of the small sign that maybe he's not completely terrified of me. Maybe there's a chance for us to connect.
We sit in silence for a few minutes, him playing his game and me watching.
I'm struck by how much he looks like me.
I can see myself in the shape of his face and the color of his eyes and the way he furrows his brow when he's concentrating.
This is my son, my child, a piece of me that I didn't know existed until three days ago, and that realization is almost overwhelming.
"Your mom says you like to read," I say finally. I can feel I'm not good at this—any of the things that normal fathers probably know instinctively—but I want to try. "What kind of books do you like?"
"Adventure stories," he says, still focused on his game. "And mysteries. Stuff where people solve problems and figure things out."
"I can get you more books," I offer. "Whatever you want. We can go to a bookstore, or I can have them delivered, or—"
"We can't leave." He says it matter-of-factly, without looking up from his game. There's a resignation in his voice that makes my chest tighten, like he's already accepted that this is just another place where he's not allowed to have freedom or choices or any kind of normal life.
"You can leave," I say carefully. "You just need to tell someone first, so we can make plans and make sure you're safe. There are people who might try to hurt you, Matteo, who want to take you away from your mom and me, and I need to make sure that doesn't happen."
He finally looks up at me. "Uncle Gio," he says simply.
"Yeah." I don't see the point in lying to him and pretending that the threat isn't real or that everything is fine when it clearly isn't. "Your uncle wants to take you and your mom back to New York. I'm not going to let that happen."
"Why?" The question is curious, and I can see him trying to figure me out.
"Because I love your mother." It feels like the easiest thing in the world to say. "I've loved her since we were young, since before you were born, and I'm not letting anyone hurt her again. And because you're my son, Matteo. You're my family. And I protect my family."
Matteo's eyes go wide, and he goes very still.
He's quiet for a long moment, and I can see the wheels turning in his head.
I can see him trying to reconcile what I'm saying with what he knows about the world—his world.
Then slowly, as if he's trying not to break some spell, he looks at Adriana, who is now standing in the doorway.
I realize that she must have heard what I just said, and my breath catches in my throat.
"I have a dad?" His voice is slightly shaky, and I feel something crack in my chest. "This is my dad?"
Adriana swallows hard. "Yes," she says finally, glancing at me and then at Matteo. "This is your father, Matteo. I—"
His chin wobbles almost immediately. "Why—why didn't you tell me? Why—" His gaze darts back and forth between us, his eyes suddenly glossy, and the room feels tense with the possibility of all the things that could be said.