A mob boss who’s spent his life controlling, taking, punishing.
A man who knows the only way to keep what’s his is to crush every obstacle that gets in the way.
Yeah, I’m a monster. But I want to be her monster.
And wanting that is its own kind of hell.
I rake a hand through my hair, thinking ahead to tomorrow with the bakery plans.
Something I had no right to give her, but I will anyway. Maybe if she sees it, she’ll stop looking at me like every touch is a prison. Maybe she’ll stop running in her head, even if her body’s still here.
At the end of the day, I don’t just want her obedience. I don’t even just want her body.
I want her soft, genuine smile. I want her walking through this house and not looking for exits.
I want her happy.
And that’s the part that’ll ruin me.
But I’ve got time.
Five years of it, if that’s what it takes.
And tomorrow is just the first step.
12
Sienna
I drag myself through the front door, hands dusted with flour, still smelling faintly of apples, cinnamon, and sugar. My arms ache from the dozens of pies I’d baked today for the festival this weekend—pumpkin, pecan, cherry, and a few experimental flavors Lucy insisted on.
My back is stiff from carrying trays, bending over ovens, and racing the clock to get everything done before the bakery closed. My brain is buzzing with orders, ingredient lists, and the unending chatter of customers.
All I want to do is shower, eat, and pass out.
But, instead, a woman I don’t know sits in the living room with a glass of red wine in one hand. Every strand of her beautiful brown hair is perfectly in place. Her posture effortless and confident as she looks up at Ben.
Girlfriend?
Mistress?
I hope so.
Ben notices me almost immediately as I issue out those dreams, but he’s smiling and gestures with his hand for me to come closer.
“Sienna, I want you to meet someone,” he says, calm and smooth. “This is Dahlia Mitchell. She’ll be helping with the bakery.”
She’ll be doing what?
I blink. “Excuse me?”
Ben closes the distance between us, attired in his famous all black ensemble that makes him look like trouble and the devil. And I can’t help but take a step away as he gets closer, but he doesn’t seem to notice or mind.
“I closed the deal on the bakery today,” he conveys flatly as if that’snota big deal. “So, that means you can start planning.”
“Planning?”
“Yes, sweetheart. The bakery.”
