Chapter 18
I don’t know who the hell Mila thinks she’s dealing with these days.
She’s bitchy. Snapping at me for breathing wrong.
And somehow that only makes me want her more—want to grab her face, force her to look at me, remind her who she belongs to.
She’s perfect like this. Perfect when she’s soft, perfect when she’s pissed, perfect when she’s tearing into me with that little tongue of hers like she wants to make me bleed.
I know exactly what she’s doing. She’s giving me a taste of what I did to her.
I told her with every touch, every stare, and every damn breath that she was mine…
and then I pushed her away with my words.
Constantly. So now she’s pushing back. She’s testing me.
Seeing if I’ll fold, if I’ll run, if I’ll prove every fear she ever had about me.
But she doesn’t get it— I can’t go anywhere. If I leave her for too long, it feels like something is scraping at the insides of my ribs. Like I’m being hollowed out. And it isn’t the curse. It’s her. It’s always been her.
I buried it before. Because I was afraid. The thought of loving someone more than they love me? The thought of obsessing like this while she felt… nothing? It made me sick.
But I should’ve known better. No one on this earth is capable of loving Mila the way I do. No one can match this thing in me—this need that gnaws and claws and burns. And I’d kill anyone who tries.
Lucian was right—either I stop being a coward, or someone else gets their hands on her. Not fucking happening. Not in this lifetime or any other.
So here I am. Standing at her door with a bouquet so big I doubt she can lift it. If I could’ve carried a garden, I would’ve.
I spent all day at work counting minutes like a lunatic. I never realized work only felt tolerable because she was there. Now it’s torture. I can’t concentrate. I can’t sit still. I want her. Need her.
Veronica’s been good—Mila trained her well. But she isn’t Mila. No one will ever be Mila. I barely remember her name most days.
And Mila refuses to come back to her position. “It’s Veronica’s now,” she said. Bullshit. Everything in that office was tailored for her. I told her Veronica wouldn’t be jobless—I’d find her another role. She still refused. Apparently, working with me now is “wrong.”
I miss her handing me my coffee. Miss those looks we exchanged that said everything without a single word. Miss seeing her every damn day.
So now I drag myself to her apartment at the crack of dawn and drink coffee there instead. Some days I wake her up at six just to talk to her before my day. It’s selfish. I make up for it by eating her pussy until she can’t remember her name.
The taste of her pussy and coffee on my tongue has done more for my mood than therapy ever could.
She opens the door wearing nothing but a T-shirt—my T-shirt—and a towel twisted in her hair. Her nails are freshly painted red, not chipped like yesterday. Her glasses are missing, leaving her big hazel eyes bare.
She’s… fuck. She’s mine.
The kind of mine that makes my chest hurt.
The kind of mine that has me thinking about ripping the door off its hinges just so nothing ever separates us again.
No one else gets to see her like this. Soft.
Barefaced. Fresh out of the shower, smelling like heat and vanilla.
No one else gets this version of her. Only me.
No one can protect her like I can. No one can spoil her like I can. No one can ruin her the way she deserves to be ruined—by my mouth, my hands, my cock.
I’m hers. Completely. Pathetically. Violently. And she’s mine in every way that matters. The second her eyes land on the bouquet, her whole face softens— for half a second. Then she slams the reaction down so fast it’s almost funny.
She crosses her arms. “What, you robbed a funeral home?”
“You gonna let me in, or you wanna keep being mean to me in the hallway?”
She rolls her eyes but steps aside. The moment I walk in, the smell of coffee hits me. There are two cups waiting on the counter. She made it before she even knew I was coming.
My chest squeezes.
She sees me notice. “Don’t read into it.”
“Sure,” I murmur, walking past her to pick up the mug.
“Shut up,” she mutters, grabbing her own cup like she wants to throw it at my head.
“Long day?” I ask.
“You don’t get to do small talk with me.”
“Why not?”
“Because all I’m used to is orders from you.”
I laugh, and it only makes her glare harder. She sits on the arm of the couch. I lean against the counter, watching her with way too much hunger. I ate her perfect pussy this morning, and I’m still hungry for more.
“You’re early. You usually don’t get off work at six.”
“Couldn’t wait to see you.”
She scoffs. “How original.”
I set my coffee down and move toward her. She sees me coming and straightens like a threatened cat.
“Don’t,” she warns.
“Don’t what?”
“Be… like this.”
“Like what?”
“All sexy and shit.” She pouts.
I reach her. She tries to shift away, but I cage her in with my body, hands braced on either side of her thighs.
“What do you want from me?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“Liar.”
I hook a finger under her chin, forcing her to look me in the eyes.
“Say it,” I whisper.
“No.”
“Say what’s eating you alive.”
“Nothing’s eating me,” she snaps. “I just don’t trust you not to bolt the second things get—”
She cuts herself off.
“The second things get what?”
She bites the inside of her cheek.
“Say it,” I growl.
She shoves the words out like they’re knives.
“I want to know if you’re going to run away again. If the moment things get difficult, you’ll bolt.”
“You think that’s still an option for me?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” she mutters.
“You can slam doors in my face,” I say. “You can be a nightmare. You can tear me to shreds with that beautiful mouth.”
She opens her lips to argue— I shut her up with a look.
“Do whatever you want,” I murmur darkly. “Torture me. Bitch at me. Ice me out. But I’m not leaving.”
She stares at me like she doesn’t know whether to slap me or pull me closer. I take her coffee mug out of her hand and set it on the table. Then I sit beside her—close enough that our thighs brush.
“Get it, baby?”
“Don’t you have anything else to call me besides baby?” She changes the subject, not ready to face it yet—and I allow her to. “It’s overused.”
“Mm,” I hum. “You’re right.”
My lips graze the shell of her ear.
“These ears handled my tantrums better than I deserved,” I sigh, kissing the soft skin behind it.
I kiss her cheek next.
“These lips…”
My mouth brushes hers, barely a touch.
“…these lips smiled at me even when I was acting like a bastard.”
I drag my mouth down her neck, to the frantic pulse at her throat.
“This pulse,” I whisper against her skin, “was never afraid of me. Even when the devil inside me clawed to the surface.”
I drop to my knees in front of her.
Her eyes widen. “What are you—”
I kiss her chest, right over her racing heart. “This heart was given to me even when I didn’t deserve a single beat of it.”
Her fingers sink into my hair. I go lower. I kiss her stomach next.
“This… will carry our beautiful children someday.”
She whimpers, trying to push my head away.
I keep going. I slide my hands down her legs, grip her ankles, and lift her feet into my palms. I kiss one arch. Then the other.
“You stood on these feet for hours in the office for me,” I whisper. “So I wouldn’t stay late by myself.”
Her knees tremble.
I look up at her while lowering my mouth between her thighs, kissing her through her panties.
“And this… this is my home. My temple. My place of worship.”
She makes a broken sound.
“You’re right,” I whisper against the cotton. “You’re not just a woman I worship. You’re an angel.”
I kiss her clit.
“My angel.”