Chapter 17
Life is messy. One day you realize you’ve let something—or someone—slip into your life far deeper than you meant to.
Like now.
It’s early morning, and Enzo has his arm clamped around my waist, his chest glued to my back, his breath dragging across my neck as he sleeps.
Every inhale feels like a claim.
Mine
Mine.
Mine.
And I hate that it works on me. I hate that my body softens into him like it has any right to.
But under all that?
A decision is sitting there, waiting for me to stop pretending it doesn’t exist. Either I choose Enzo Morelli—this violent, obsessive, beautiful disaster—or I cut him out before he does it first.
I still want him. But I also know his pattern: the second something scares him, he runs. Pushes. Hurts before he can be hurt.
So I’ll push first. If he leaves running, good riddance. If he stays… he’s worthy.
I twist enough to see his face. It’s relaxed in a way I’ve never seen before—completely unaware I’m about to ruin his morning.
I slap him with the back of my hand lightly at first, but he doesn’t stir. I slap him harder this time. A deep, annoyed groan rumbles out of him as his eyes crack open, icy blue and confused.
“What are you doing?” he mutters.
God, that morning voice. My irritation wavers for a second.
I lift my chin. “Coffee.”
He stares, slow-blinking like his brain isn’t fully online yet. “What?”
“You heard me.”
Payback is a bitch. He walked into the office plenty of times barking “coffee” instead of good morning. It’s my turn now.
His brows pinch together, one eye still refusing to open. “You… want coffee?”
I give him a single nod, blank-faced.
He sits up without a word. Then stands. Completely naked. And walks to my kitchen with that perfect ass flexing with every step.
My mouth falls open.
Maybe this test is about to take me somewhere I’m not ready for.
Enzo returns with two mugs, handing me one.
“Thanks,” I say flatly, taking it.
His naked self sits next to me on the bed, big dick swinging around semi-hard. I try not to look at it, but I swear it’s the one looking at me.
“You’re late for work,” I mumble.
He shrugs, taking a sip. “I’m not going.”
My eyebrows hit my hairline. He seems to be full of surprises this morning. In the three years I worked for him, he never skipped a day.
“Since when do you skip work?”
“Since today.” Another sip. “Since I was in your bed,” he adds.
“You’re ridiculous.”
He smiles lazily. “Wanted to spend the day with you.”
“Thrilling,” I deadpan.
“You always this sweet in the morning?”
“Yes.” I flutter my lashes dramatically.
He tries again. “What do you want to do today?”
“Nothing.”
“We could go out—”
“No.”
“Breakfast somewhere? You love pancakes.”
The fact that he remembers warms my blood, but I trap the butterflies before they escape.
“I said no.”
He lifts a brow. “You always this grumpy without caffeine?”
“I have caffeine,” I say, raising the mug. “See? You just deserve the attitude.”
“Did you sleep badly? I’m not apologizing for hogging you all night—you should get used to it.”
“No.”
How can I ever get used to it if he leaves every chance he gets?
“Are you sore?”
“No.”
“Did I do something?”
“Yes,” I sigh.
He sets his mug down carefully, then takes mine from my hand and places it beside his. “Talk.”
“No.”
His nostrils flare. In one swift movement, he pins me on the bed, his hand circling my throat. His body covers mine, heat pressing from chest to thighs.
“Try again,” he says. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Nothing.”
He tightens his grip just enough to make my breath stutter. “Lie to me again.”
“I’m not—”
“Baby, look at me.”
“No.”
“Look at me.”
I do. His gaze drags over my face like he’s memorizing every inch.
“You’re angry,” he whispers. “At me.”
“Wow. Observant,” I mutter, rolling my eyes.
“Why?”
I push at his chest, but he doesn’t budge.
“I don’t want to talk.”
“Too bad.”
“So leave,” I hiss. Like you always do.
Enzo laughs. “Not happening.”
His fingers press more firmly at my throat.
“Tell me.”
I clench my teeth. Hold. Hold. Hold—
Then I break.
“I want to see if you’re going to run,” I spit. “Okay? I want to see how long it takes before you get scared and disappear.”
“Mila.”
“No. Don’t ‘Mila’ me.”
“You can do whatever you want to me, baby,” he says softly. “Push me. Test me. Be as bitchy as you want. I’m staying. Forever.”
I swallow hard. “Because of the curse?”
I know all about the Morelli curse. I always hoped I’d be his damnation—and when I finally became it, it was too late.
He presses a kiss to my temple, then my cheek, my nose, and finally a soft peck to my lips.
“No,” he whispers. “Because I’m yours.”