CHAPTER 28
Santino
Four days.
It had been four days since the kiss—and two since the motel, when she’d curled into me like it was the most natural thing in the world. As if she’d done it a hundred times before and that was how we were always supposed to wake up.And every hour since has been a slow bleed into reality.
I barely slept after what happened that night. Staying vigilant, she might slip into wherever she had gone. I kept waiting for her breath to hitch, for her body to jolt, for the nightmare to drag her under again.
I’d even pretended to be asleep, just to see if she’d pull away. I was starving for proof she wanted me, even unconsciously. And when her breath fanned across my lips—it hit like a live wire straight down my spine, to my cock.
And then she pulled away. Almost falling on her ass. Like none of it had happened. Like I hadn’t happened.
And when she bent to pull her jeans on—
Minchia!
I stayed exactly where I was, eyes glued to her. To that ass.Curved. Full. Made to be held—gripped—owned.
Every filthy thought hit at once. Dragging her back, sinking my teeth into them.
Forcing her onto all fours before I sank into her again and again—until she forgot why she was angry in the first place.
Forgot how to think. How to stand. How to be anything except mine.
Until the only name that would spill from that smart mouth of hers was mine.
My jaw clenched. Hard. Because just minutes ago, I’d been holding her like she was made of glass. And now the monster in me wanted to ruin her.
And I didn’t even look away when she caught me staring. Didn’t deny it. Didn’t want to.
I exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down my face. One kiss and she’d avoided me for four straight days. A mirthless huff left my chest. If I’d done anything more…
Christ.
This woman was going to be the death of me.
Everything led back to the kiss. I was in a constant state of arousal around her—tight, coiled, borderline painful. Like my own body had turned against me.
And worse, I noticed everything, cataloguing her without meaning to. The flick of her tongue, the tilt of her head. The absentminded things she never noticed. Every glance, every sound, every move she made now carried the echo of that kiss.My body was a live wire, my mind a prison.
My brain had become a fucking surveillance system, programmed to track her.
The way she licked the spoon absentmindedly while tasting something—slow, distracted, like she didn’t realise what she was doing.
Holding a pen between her lips when she was thinking—brows drawn, lost in her work, completely oblivious of how obscene it looked.
And when she bent over in those godforsaken shorts while loading the dishwasher—
Fuck my life.
Like she wasn’t single-handedly testing the last shred of restraint I had left. Pure torture.
And every single time, my thoughts went somewhere darker. Somewhere I shouldn’t let them go. Didn’t matter how many times I told myself to look away. Didn’t matter how many times I tried to shut it down.
If anything, knowing what she felt, what she tasted like, only made it worse. Because now memory had something to work with.
This wasn’t just attraction anymore. Attraction would’ve been easier. It was a compulsion. An addiction. And the sick bastard in me had no desire to quit. It sat in my chest like a loaded gun, waiting for her to pull the trigger.
I needed to talk to her. Get it out. End whatever this was before it consumed me completely. And when she would shut me down, because she would—maybe I’d finally be able to breathe again. Maybe then I’d stop obsessing.
But I knew better. I’d just find new ways to torture myself, because I’m a glutton for pain—and she’s the sharpest blade I’ve ever held.
A bitter truth followed.
Who the fuck was I kidding?
I wasn’t getting over her. Not now. Not ever.
I’d just have to learn how to live with it. This slow, deliberate kind of torture. And God help me—I’d probably welcome it.
Then there was the other thing between us.
The nightmare. The way she’d looked at me.
Or rather… hadn’t. Those empty eyes. Like I was holding a body with no one inside it.
That image refused to leave me. It gutted me, because I wanted to drag her back, wanted to force her to see me, even if it meant breaking her more.
Her demons didn’t appear out of thin air. Someone had put them there. And I intended to find out who the fuck gave them to her.
After that day, she’d gone right back to avoiding me.
And the more she did, the more it pissed me off.
Because I wasn’t just some stranger she could shut out.
She doesn’t get to bleed into me, cling like I’m the only thing keeping her from falling apart—and then walk away like I’m nothing.
That’s not how this worked. Not with me.
I tried giving her the space she deserved. But every time she laughed on the phone, voice softening—every time I caught a glimpse of her slipping back into that composed, controlled version of herself, my tolerance snapped tighter.
Because I’d seen the other side. The one she didn’t show anyone else. The real one she buried. The one that broke too easily and felt too much. And now, I couldn’t unsee it.
She could pretend all she wanted. Play perfect. Play control. But I knew better now.
My phone rang, dragging me out of my thoughts.
Sean Coonan.
“What?” I answered, voice clipped.
“Got what you asked for, lad,” he said.
I let out a deep breath. Perfect timing. A distraction. Finally.
“Who is he?” I asked.
“Someone who’s been tracking your girl for a while.”
My grip tightened on the phone.
“It doesn’t look like a casual interest,” Sean added.
“Send me everything.”
Sean chuckled. “Never thought I’d see Santino Rossi end up like this.”
“Like what?”
“Pussy whipped.”
That fucking bastard.
“Fuck off,” I replied.
“So how do you plan to repay this time?” Sean asked.
That prick was always keeping score.
“My eternal gratitude,” I mocked.
“Worthless currency,” he said dryly. “I’ll collect later.”
The line went dead.
My phone buzzed again. I opened the file. Scrolled. Stilled.
A man in his sixties. Familiar. China. Two years ago. I’d seen that face before. A parasite. The kind of man who came crawling out whenever he smelled money.
A flicker of memory surfaced—the bastard had been sniffing around, trying to get in with the Triads after Lorenzo’s empire went up in flames. Didn’t remember his name. Just the face. And now that same face was tied to Roxanne.
Suddenly, the blood in my veins turned cold. My jaw tightened. He’d sent men before asking about her. To get close. Some got close enough to be noticed. The rest—disappeared.
No one touched her. Nobody got close enough. Not once. Not while I was breathing.
But now, this felt different. Personal. This wasn’t curiosity. It felt targeted. And I didn’t like it. Not one bit.
Roxanne came back that evening. And everything almost looked normal.
She stood at the counter, back to me, stirring the pot as though nothing had happened.
Like we weren’t sitting on top of a landmine, only one wrong word away from it blowing up.
As if the ground beneath us wasn’t about to split open.
I watched her closely for a beat too long. Her shoulders were tense. Her gaze kept drifting toward the window, as though she expected someone to appear. She held herself like she was waiting for bad news.
Yeah. Something was off. And it wasn’t just us anymore.The feeling had been crawling at the back of my neck all day. Like a shadow was getting closer.
I exhaled slowly. I’d had enough.
“Roxanne,” I said.
My voice came out lower than I intended. Controlled—but barely.
“We need to talk.”