Sipping my scotch, I lean into the armchair, watching the chessboard.
I always win, but I might lose everything that’s ever mattered to me. Her. This woman who has snuck under my skin, touched that black junk called a heart and lit it up, embedding herself into my damn marrow.
Closing my eyes briefly, I ponder how to diminish the impending betrayal.
I sense her long before she speaks up.
From the corner of my eye, I see her leaning against the doorframe, dressed in my shirt, riding up her thigh, exposing her unblemished skin. I’ve kissed, licked, and traced every inch of her, yet I’ve only gotten more ravenous, my hunger impossible to sate.
The corner of my mouth arches up instinctively, incapable of stopping my heart from reacting to her, greeting her like the whipped man I am.
“You stroke my ego every time you ogle me.”
“You could be a gentleman and pretend you don’t notice,” she sasses.
I chuckle. She makes me feel elated with such ease.
“I always fail at being a gentleman when it comes to you.”
“Yeah?” Licking her lip, she walks toward me.
Settling herself between my spread thighs, she picks the glass from my hand and places it down on the small table. My hands automatically move to her hips, needing to hold her because she’s my anchor. I can’t slip into pitch darkness to spar with my demons. Without her, I’d lose myself—a sailor lost on an unforgiving sea.
That’s why I planned a quick marriage. One month without her in my life is already impossibly long. A day longer is unfathomable. She’s fundamental to my existence.
“I can’t sleep when you’re not next to me,” she murmurs.
I pull her down onto my lap. “Just a little while longer.”
Avoiding my eyes, she notices the chessboard intact. “You didn’t play?”
“Other things on my mind.”
“Did your father make you play?” she whispers, constantly trying to figure out the root of my issues.
My body pulls taut, not wanting to trouble her with the horrors of my childhood, but I also need to give her something. We’ll be married. She’ll find out soon enough that behind the polished exterior hides a veritable monster. I’ve killed many. Will probably continue to do that as the boss of the Irish American Mob.
I insist on that because my mother was American. I lead a legacy built on her abandonment and my father’s roots. My men had to accept the duality and embrace it.
I wave a hand through the air like it’s unimportant. “He wanted me to excel in everything.”
She eyes me with eyes brimming with understanding, letting me know she doesn’t buy my impassive act. “That’s a lot of pressure to put on a child.”
I shrug, feigning nonchalance. “I survived.”
She doesn’t buy my flippancy, casting me an intent look. “That’s not the thing, Tristan. Children need harmony, acceptance, and a safe place where they can grow.”
“I’ve turned out all right. I’ve become exactly the man I had to be to lead my world,” I grit out, the demons pummeling at my ribcage for acknowledgement.
“Is he the reason you don’t want children?” she asks softly, threading her fingers through my hair. Her touch is magic, curing my every ailment.
A sigh thunders in my chest. I am the worst for pushing her into a future where she won’t become a mother just because I refuse children that share my DNA, my father’s foul blood.
“I’m not a good man, Viviana. Something you felt from the very beginning, but it still drew you in. You, baby, felt the darkness and still danced with it.”
She bites her lip, not shying away from the conversation. Maybe she needs a reason to strengthen her resolve to end things. I could give her hundreds, yet it would be futile.
“You let a killer touch you.”
