“My first test,” he rumbles the words, his eyes flashing with victory before he even answers the question. “It means ‘my peace’.”
I suck in a sharp breath while his answer settles around me with a sweetness I don’t know how to grapple with. This is a man who kills, a man who holds power like its air. And he calls me his peace?
His hand slides down over my shoulder to push the strap still on correctly down my arm. The cups of the lingerie I’m wearing starts to gape at the front and exposes the tops of my tits even more. He doesn’t look though, his hazel eyes remaining locked with mine as the tip of his finger runs along the edge of the fabric and leaves goosebumps along my skin wherever he touches.
“You don’t know me,” I try and argue with him, but my words are weak.
“I don’t need to know the details, even though you will tell me everything there is to know about you. The moment you looked into my eyes I knew,” he assures me.
“Knew what?” My question is so soft it barely makes it past my lips.
“That you’re mine.”
Angelo’s words brand me. I jolt as the realization and depth of what he’s saying starts to shift my reality. As it does, I start to shake my head without even realizing it.
“You don’t want me,” my words are louder this time, stronger and surer. There’s no way what he’s saying can be true. No fucking way. “I’m just a whore who you rescued from your brother. I could have been anyone with the misfortune of being on the wrong end of his anger and you would have done the same thing. That doesn’t mean there’s something deeper here.”
I brace myself for his rage. I’ve talked back to him, and Angelo Amato is not the kind of man you talk back to.
The next thing I know, I’m flat on my back and Angelo is looming over me. He gives me some of his weight while also holding himself away from my body. His eyes bore into mine, holding me hostage even more than the way he has physically pinned me in place.
“I never want to hear you say such a thing again,” he hisses the words, the anger in them like knives sliding along my skin. “You will never call yourself a whore.”
“You know where I work,” I point out as gently as I can.
“Worked.”
My eyebrows shoot up in surprise as I start to shake my head. “No, I work there. Just because you carried me out like some rag doll doesn’t mean I don’t still work there.”
“Yes,” he states like his word is law, “it does.”
Even though I want to argue with the man, I don’t believe it’ll do me any good. This is something we can revisit. Later.
Maybe when he’s not hovering above me and making me feel delicate and fragile when I’ve spent my life fortifying my strength while finding ways to survive in the worst of circumstances. What the hell is this man doing to me?
When I don’t argue further with him, a self-satisfied smile spreads across his face. I can’t help but take it in and the way it transforms his features. When a man like Angelo smiles, you make sure to get a front row seat. This is not the kind of man who shows his emotions.
I might not know nearly enough about him, but I don’t think he’s anything like Romeo always expressed his anger and unbridled lust while craving another’s pain.
The heat coming off Angelo is soothing. I could get lost in how safe it feels to be pinned underneath him. He could hurt or kill me without even breaking a sweat. Unable to help myself, my hands come up to touch the expanse of his broad chest, his naked chest. The tattoos decorating his body are mesmerizing. I want to study them while he tells me all his stories.
And his secrets.
I shouldn’t want anything from this man, but I’m starting to understand what he means when he mentions craving something from me. I feel the same way about him.
“Tell me,” his voice is soft, “about you?” His voice drops an octave, the warning clear as he reminds me, “No lies.”
My gut clenches and I huff out a breath. This is where everything breaks down. This is when he runs. Just like everyone else.
“What do you want to hear, Angelo?” I scoff and shake my head before looking away from him, unable to look into his hazeleyes as he learns the truth about me. And how worthless I am. “I never knew my father. My mom was a drug addict who used men to keep her head above water while they used her for her body. My childhood was never stable and never safe.” I swallow hard and force myself to look into his eyes so he can see how broken I am.
“When she died, there was no family to claim me. I was put into the system and bounced around from house to house. No one wanted to give me a home.” I shrug one shoulder and murmur, “Maybe I never deserved one.”
As much as I haven’t wanted to admit it, I hoped he would be different. I needed him to be different.
“Dove,” my name on his lips sounds like a prayer and has me looking at him.
A soft gasp escapes my lips because he’s looking at me with steady affection and an understanding which I’m not sure I deserve.
