Page 50 of Lovely Venom

“You can’t be serious.”

“If there’s one thing you should know about me, ladroncina, it’s that I never say anything I don’t mean.”

I stare at him, at a loss for words.

Realistically, I know I only have myself to blame for this. I practically threw down the gauntlet in the bathroom when I challenged him. But the thought of having him in my personal space with this powder keg of tension between us is a recipe for disaster.

A hint of satisfaction flickers in the depths of his dark eyes as he waits for my reaction. For a man who takes pleasure in fighting with me, engaging him would only give him what he wants. It would also be a waste of breath, because I know I won’t change his mind. The best I can do is hope that he gets bored and realizes this so-called stalker isn’t worth his time.

“I need to do my yoga,” I say primly.

He returns his attention to his phone without offering me a response.

I study him for a beat, irritated by his indifference. But then I realize that’s probably the point. So I pretend he isn’t here and roll out my mat.

Twenty minutes into my routine, I’m proud of myself for not looking at him once. But then he gets up and walks past me, meeting someone at the door. When he returns, he has an overnight bag. His eyes briefly meet mine before they sweep the length of my body, giving absolutely nothing away.

And so the day continues in awkward silence. I spend some time reading and doomscrolling while he takes calls and works from his laptop.

Marco texts me a few times from different numbers, begging me to meet so we can talk. He offers up a variety of tired excuses for his behavior, but I don’t bother to read them before I block those contacts too.

When it gets closer to dinner time, Cristian examines the bare contents of my fridge with a drawn brow. I can only imagine what he’d think of me if he realized I don’t know how to cook. I exist on bagged salads, fruit, protein shakes, and sandwiches.

The Vitales always do a big Sunday meal, and he’s missing out because he’s here with me. But as it turns out, Cristian is resourceful. In less than an hour, someone else delivers an entire spread of Italian food.

He dishes up two plates and hands one to me, shooting me a look that makes my thighs clench. His voice dips into a low, rough timbre as he tells me to eat, but what I hear is, “be a good girl and do what I tell you.”

He has that dominant masculine energy I’ve always craved in a man, and it makes me want to follow his commands. It also makes me want to challenge him, just to see what happens when I don’t.

Warmth blooms under my skin as I peer up at him, and I swear he can tell what I’m thinking. His smoldering gaze grabs me by the throat and holds me hostage as his eyes rake over me in a rough caress.

A charge hums through the air, and my heart thumps erratically as the moment stretches on. I sink my teeth into my lip to prevent myself from saying something legendarily stupid, but there’s nothing I can do about the rapid pulse in my neck.

He’s definitely noticed that, and my nipples that won’t seem to calm the hell down beneath my shirt.

“Cold?” he murmurs, a thread of amusement slipping through his voice.

“Yep.” I swallow.

I’m as far from cold as it gets and we both know it, but I refuse to admit that I have all manner of filthy thoughts running through my mind right now.

Fortunately, one of us appears to have our sanity intact. Cristian tosses me a blanket I don’t need, then he puts some much-needed distance between us as we eat in silence.

The rest of the night creeps by slowly, and I’m relieved when I finally go to bed. But as I lie there, all I can think about is whether or not he’d hear my vibrator if I used it. Then I realize how insane it is that he has me this worked up. I absolutely cannot allow myself to indulge these fantasies, particularly when I have to face him every day for who knows how long.

I don’t need a replay of what happened last night.

As that memory rattles around my brain, I pull up my message thread with Bran. The last conversation we had was when he sent me that picture from the bar at Black Velvet. My fingers hover over the keyboard as I try to think of something to say, but I come up empty. So I settle on the picture game instead.

I snap a photo of the wooden music box on my dresser. The varnish is worn at the edges from years of use, but inside, the tiny ballerina still dances when the melody plays.

Bran receives my message, and I stare at the ceiling until he replies.

Bran: Family heirloom?

It’s a simple question, but the answer hollows out my chest cavity. Realistically, I shouldn’t be sharing this with anyone, but as I type out my response, it feels like a relief to finally say it.

Morrigan: It was a gift from my mother.