And that’s a real problem.
For the last few days, I’ve thrown everything at him—my attitude, my silence, my worst moods, every shitty defense mechanism I own. I’ve pushed, tested, and poked the soft spots I know he has.
He never left or snapped.
If I’m bratty, he fucks me until I forget my own name.
If I mock his gestures, he doubles them—bigger, louder, more unhinged.
If I ignore him, he pulls me into his lap and makes me talk.
I wanted to be his curse….turns out I already am.
But that doesn’t mean I’m done playing karma.
It’s almost ten. We’re still tangled in bed, warm and lazy under the covers, when I ask:
“What’s your biggest fear?”
His arm tightens around my waist instantly. “Why are you bringing that up?”
“Because I want to know what this dangerous, manly man is afraid of. Maybe he’ll seem more human than beast.”
“Mila.”
He uses his warning tone. Hisdon’t-play-with-metone. His goal is to intimidate me—but it makes me wet instead.
I turn in his arms so I can see his face. “I’m serious.”
He hates being vulnerable. Being seen. Finally, through clenched teeth, he mutters, “Heights.”
I raise an eyebrow. “That’s it?”
“Yes.”
Too quick.
I drag a finger down his muscular chest. “Try again.”
Enzo Morelli—who would make the devil blink first—looks away.
“No.”
“Enzo.”
His eyes flick back to mine, furious and reluctant. “Snakes.”
I force myself not to laugh. “Snakes? Really?”
He narrows his eyes. “That’s all.”
I don’t change the subject. I know there’s something he’s not telling me.
With a sharp hiss, he admits, “Losing you.”
He holds my gaze like he’s daring me to laugh, to mock it, to turn it into a weapon. I don’t. Instead, I divert the conversation, not wanting to make him uncomfortable after admitting something that warms my chest.
“So,” I say, “we’re going to face those fears today. Only the first two.”
