4. Elias
ELIAS
Mafia princess.
She’s a fucking mafia princess.
The words detonate in my skull like a flash-bang.
I stare at her—chin up, brown eyes glassy with hurt she's trying to bury under all that sass—and feel the full weight of what Aiden withheld from me land square on my chest.
The church scene reframes itself in my head in about three seconds flat. The armed men. The cowering groom. The level of violence visited on a beautiful wedding day. Nothing about it had been a simple extraction job.
Of course she's mafia royalty. That oily little man hadn't just been marrying up. He'd been buying himself a young, nubile mafia bride, probably along with some territory and new alliances.
So who had instigated the shoot-out then? Who had been the target—a third party that didn’t like the alliance being forged? Was it her brother’s enemies or her prospective bridegroom’s?
Were they even now looking for her? My heart lurches into my throat at the idea of her being in danger.
Also, I’m going to kill Aiden for dropping me in the middle of mafia disputes. And yet, I’ve known him for more than three decades and there’s no way he would get involved in something like this just for money. Much less throw me into the deep end.
“You don’t have to look so shocked. I can fend for myself,” she says, drawing my attention back to her. Her lower lip wobbles as I continue to stare at her and she bites down on the tender flesh again.
She’s had a hell of a day.
She doesn’t know if her brother’s safe.
She’s stuck with a stranger like me—who’s already injected her with a tranq. I have no doubt what a scary bastard I am.
On top of all of it, I told her that I didn’t want her here. That I didn’t want to baby-sit her, to be precise.
She fought back even though she was wounded. In a way that makes my chest do something that I don't have a name for.
This is why I don't do people. Much less fragile, innocent, beautiful women who need sweet words and soft gestures. Who make me feel like an inadequate asshole.
I'm a grumpy bastard with the social skills of a toddler and zero filter between my brain and my mouth.
She's been in my cabin for less than ten minutes and I've already managed to hit every bruise she has. Without even meaning to.
I drag a hand over my face and that's when I see it. The pink stain on the wedding dress. "You're bleeding."
She looks down.
Her knees and one elbow are scraped raw, angry red against her pale skin—souvenirs from hitting the concrete when she made a run for it outside the church.
"I'm fine," she says immediately, pulling her dress down. It’s useless. One layer of it ripped from the back to all the way around, leaving one bare thigh. “I’ll clean them in the shower.”
"Sit." I jerk my chin at the armchair by the fireplace.
"I said I'm—"
“Humor me, Princess. Please,” I bite out.
The word tastes like sawdust on my tongue but works like magic. It’s a basic social tenet, yes, but I have a feeling this woman operates on a completely different spectrum. She could have been put on the planet to spread love and kindness and laughter and joy. It practically radiates from her.
Her mutinous expression lingers but she sits. Muttering something under her breath that I'm fairly certain questions my parentage.
I swallow down the chuckle that wants to rise up, pull the first-aid kit from the kitchen cabinet and cross back to her. For a second, my steps stall.
In the tattered wedding dress, she looks small and fragile and painfully beautiful. Worse, she looks like she belongs there.
Here, in my cabin. Under my protection.
No, she doesn’t, I counter the pathetic voice inside my head. Maybe Aiden was right that no man should go months without seeing another human being. Clearly, I’m starved for company.
“If I’m going to stay at your cabin for a few days, I should know your name,” she says.
“Should you though?” I say, feeling strangely wary about hearing my name on her lips.
She blinks but recovers fast. “How else will I make sure my brother tips you extra?”
So that’s how we’re going to play it—pretend that I’m her glorified bodyguard/watchdog for the next few days. Surprisingly, it sits okay with me. Maybe because it turns this whole thing into a transaction. It’s the only thing I can understand.
And yet, there’s also a part of me that hates what I have turned into. That I can’t offer words of comfort to a distressed woman. That I’m wary of a woman half my size with double the courage I have.
She watches me with those big eyes as I lower myself onto one knee in front of her, my bad hip grinding in protest. I ignore it. That jasmine scent of her claws its way under my skin in two breaths. It’s deeper and richer than at the church, infused with her sweat.
I try not to breathe in deep gulps, just so I could have more of her in my lungs. And fail spectacularly. “Give me your arm."
She holds it out, jaw set, trying to look like she doesn't care. “Your name, mountain man.”
I can’t catch the edge of my mouth from twisting up. “Elias Sharif.”
“I would say nice to meet you but we both know that would be a lie. But thank you for saving my life, Elias.” She raises a hand before I can open my mouth in protest. “Yes, you were paid to do it, but still.”
I grunt. Damn little slip of a thing but she knows me already. I uncap the antiseptic, unroll some gauze and pick out a few bandages from the small bag.
“My name is Iris and I love cooking, babies and my brother Marco. I also love teaching and have a degree. Other loves include gardening, knitting and hiking. And please, don’t laugh at the last. Just because I’m fat doesn’t mean I’m not athletic.”
Is she for real? Has she looked at herself in the mirror?
Because she should see a fucking Goddess.
I sneak a glance up at her. Her head’s turned away from me, offering me the delicate line of her profile. The pulse at her neck thrums in a jittery way. She’s breathing hard and I realize she’s talking to keep the sobs out.
I still.
There’s a part of me that urges me to pull her into my arms and just…hold her. Give her some basic human comfort. Let her move through the shock. But a bigger fear stops me.
I don’t think I could stop holding her, or touching her, if I do it once.
Slowly, I reach for her hand. Mine dwarfs hers, my tanned, scarred knuckles a study in contrast against her long, elegant fingers. I lift her arm and slowly press the antiseptic against her skin with a cotton ball.
She hisses, her fingers stiffening against mine but doesn't pull away. Her warmth feels like a blanket draped over my shoulders.
I clean it thoroughly, then the scrape on her palm, then tape a square of gauze over the first one.
I'm marring her with my rough, wrecked hands. The thought settles in my chest with a weight I can't examine. Then another thought follows it, darker and quieter.
I want to mar her.
I want to put my hands all over her and leave evidence of it—divots from my fingers, scrapes from my stubble as I rub it against the tender flesh of her intimate places, my fingerprints around her neck.
The urge is so vivid that I can feel my fingers shake.
“Can you check my knee too?" she says, pushing her leg forward. Oblivious to the war happening eighteen inches from her face.
Before I can reply, she gathers the ruined silk of her dress and pulls it up her thigh. The smooth, thick flesh of her thighs is a decadent, yet innocent invitation.
The torn edge gets tangled around her thighs. With a gasp, she pulls it back down a little but it’s too late.
I’ve seen the flash of color beneath the virginal white dress.
Neon pink panties. A scrap of lace. Just to torment me further.
My jaw tightens so hard I hear my back teeth creak. I keep my eyes on her knee. The scrape is much worse.
I clean it without the least bit of gentleness—she hisses again, her fingers gripping the arm of the chair—dab it dry, dress it. Clinical. Efficient. Done.
I stand up and turn away, putting distance between me and her. God only knows how long I’ll be stuck with her.
I count back from fifty, just to get my head screwed on right, when I hear her moving around gingerly.
"I need something to wear," she says from behind me. "Do you have a spare set of clothes I could borrow?"
"No."
“No?” she repeats, like a baby bird. “I can’t stay in this dress.”
“This isn’t a concierge service at a luxury hotel, Ms. Moretti. I don’t have women’s clothes lying around. I live alone.”
"So what am I supposed to do, parade around naked?"
The image detonates in my head before I can stop it.
Pale, silky flesh. Sharp dips and thick curves. Warm and soft and tight and wet and ready and willing for me, whenever and however I want her.
I turn around sharply, close to hyperventilating. “If you do that, I’ll throw you out into the cold.”
“Jesus, mountain man. No need to take everything I say so literally. And I wasn’t asking for like couture wear. I can make do with some old sweats of yours.”
I sigh. Of course, that makes so much sense.
“Fine. Go take your shower. There's only one bed," I say, cutting off my own brain. "You can have it."
"I don't need your bed."
“Take the bed, Princess.”
"I said no thank you." She crosses her arms, wincing slightly as her elbow protests. "I'm used to roughing it."
I give her a long, leisurely look, using the chance to take more of her loveliness in. Make sure to dwell on her manicured nails. "Sure you are."
Something sparks in those brown eyes. “Underestimate me at your own peril.” She tips her chin up. "I'm fat, half-Japanese and far too cheerful for the world I grew up in. Believe me when I tell you, you don't know me or what I'm capable of."
As ridiculous as she makes herself sound, I believe her.
She’s already proved that she’s got a core made of steel. I also can’t help but admire her—for all that she’s too sunshiny for my tastes—for how she’s handling all the shit that’s come her way today.
And that’s the fucking problem, right there.
I’ve known the woman for a few hours and I feel like I’ve known her my entire life. And that I could spend a few more lifetimes learning things about her that I don’t already know.
Like what turns her on. Like if she screams or moans when she comes. Like if she’s shy and naive in bed too or voluble and nosy. Like if she’s happy to have gotten away from her old bridegroom.
She comes to stand in front of me and then turns around, presenting me with her back. A long row of tiny pearl buttons runs from her neck to the base of her spine. "Undo these."
I look at the buttons. I look at the long pale line of her neck. Even without touching them yet, I can just feel my fingers turning clumsy. “You turn that cute button nose up when I call you a princess but you need a damned personal maid.”
“Undo them, mountain man. Or you’ll hear me complain about it all night.” When I don’t move, her shoulders stiffen. “Please. It’s the last thing I’ll ask of you tonight. Won’t even beg you to feed me.”
Now, I’m beset by an image of having her sit in my lap, naked, and feeding her the berries I grow with my own hands. She’d lick my fingers, maybe suck them, while I lift her and slowly sink into her. I wouldn’t even stop feeding her.
Jesus, what the hell’s wrong with me?
As if alarmed at the promise she’s making, her stomach lets out a loud growl.
My chest twists and I exhale roughly. It’s pointless to resist her presence here. Like throwing myself headlong, over and over, against a brick wall. “Make sure you tell your rich mafia brother every little thing you’re having me do for you, Princess.”
“Absolutely, mountain man.”
I run a finger down the buttons, without quite touching her. She shivers. “Are you attached to the dress?”
She pauses. “God, no. Why?"
I pull my Swiss knife from my pocket, flip it open, and grab the top seam of the dress.
My knuckles press into her nape but instead of pulling away, she pushes her neck against my hold.
I draw the knife cleanly up the back seam.
The dress falls open with a soft hiss in one smooth motion, revealing smooth bare shoulders and the upper curve of her breasts.
They heave as she grasps the falling dress up against her chest.
She’s not wearing a bra.
I could just reach both my arms around and cup those delicious weights in my own hands. Persuade her to let the dress puddle at her feet. Let her feel what she’s doing to me.
“I like that, mountain man. Feels very symbolic, cutting the dress off of me.” She jiggles her shoulders in a sort of half-dance. “I’m ready to bloom into my new self.”
My hands come down on top of her of their own volition. As if by arresting her movements, I can arrest what she can do to me. “Aren’t you scared of me, Princess?”
She looks over my shoulder, her silky hair running over my knuckles. “You won’t believe this, mountain man. But I’m a good judge of character. And no, I’m not scared of you.”
“You don’t know what I’m capable of. What I’ve done before,” I say, jaw tight.
“No, I don’t. But I have a feeling it’s never far from your own mind. And how much you hate it.”
My chest lifts and falls as if some crushing weight has been moved off it. An unbearable weight that I’ve been carrying around for years.
I struggle to hide my shock and shy my gaze away from her, like a coward.
My vision is blurry as I hand her the folded army sweater and sweatpants I pulled from the shelf above the first aid kit while she wasn't looking.
She snatches them from my hands without a word, gathers the ruins of her dress around her and disappears into the bathroom. I don’t breathe, I think, until I hear the door click shut.
I stand in the middle of my cabin.
It smells like jasmine. Echoes with the benediction she dropped in my lap without even knowing.
It’s one thing for my cock to salute her every chance it gets. The woman’s goddamned beautiful.
It’s a whole other for my heart to start panting after her, craving her words, longing for her touch.
Because she’s a mafia princess who belongs to a different world. And I decided, long ago, that I couldn’t have anyone in mine.
I'm so completely and utterly screwed.