Page 76 of Bleed with Me

Still, my mind wasn’t fully in this restaurant, at this table, anywhere near Arianna’s carefully crafted plan to fool her son into thinking that everything went by the book. It lingered elsewhere. On a simple message sent by a man who occupied my mind so much that if my psychiatrist knew how deep my obsession ran, he would prescribe severe medication and isolation, maybe even a straitjacket.

Dorian. My precious Dorian with his playful smile and unimaginably skillful tongue.

I instinctively pressed my thighs together at the memory of his mouth between my legs, destructive fire igniting in my chest. I had to see him, at least for a second, at least a glimpse of him to get my dose and survive this nightmare. But I couldn’t risk it. Not here, not in public, not with people watching and expectations pressing in from all sides.

Three hours later, I dropped my black purse on the floor in my apartment and threw myself on the cream sofa. The exhaustion and helplessness gripping me were palpable.

This wasn’t my life. It was a cage wrapped in silk, tightening around me with every second that passed.

I had to speed things up.

I had to end this agony and claim Dorian as my husband.

I had to…

My eyes landed on the papers scattered on the coffee table. The marriage certificate, Lucas’s approval to become a wedding officiant, my notes about another kidnapping, and the medical report of the girl, bearing Dorian’s signature. I stole it from his house, intending to forge his handwriting and deliver the certificate to the authorities, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

I held the pen in my hand for almost half an hour this morning, but didn’t dare write his name next to mine.

How strange was that? I could kill a woman who touched him, but couldn’t sign a fucking paper on his behalf.

With a renewed determination, I knelt beside the coffee table and grabbed the pen. But instead of finally ending my misery, my hands snapped it in half in a surge of fury.

I wanted him to sign that fucking paper. Him. No one else. Not me, driven by desperation. Not Lucas, because he witnessed my fight.

Him. Dorian.

It would prove he wanted me, that he chose me despite everything.

Fuck!

My naivety was making me sick. Who, in their right mind, would expect anything other than a bullet to the head after everything I’d done?

I'd dragged mafia royalty into my reckless plan. They didn’t forgive and forget; quite the opposite. Zyon would happily make an example out of me and crucify me in the middle of Manhattan to send a message.

Still, death didn’t scare me. Since I was thirteen, when I first stepped into my father’s house, my grandfather made sure I was prepared to face the end at any moment. But why should it come right after I found my perfect match?

It wasn’t love, that much I knew. Love was soft, gentle, forgiving. It didn’t claw at your insides or set your bones on fire until you couldn’t think straight.

What I felt for Dorian was something else entirely, something feral, something that itched beneath my skin no matter how much I tried to get rid of it. A constant, burning presence that refused to be ignored, but instead demanded more, always more.

It was infuriating, making me feel like an idiot. Still, I would burn the world for him without hesitation. I would kill, lie, and destroy everything in my path just to keep him within reach. As pathetic as it was, I would do the unthinkable if it meant I got to have him.

But I couldn’t sign his name on that fucking piece of paper.

My fingers curled into a fist, nails digging into my palm as frustration coiled tighter in my chest. Of all the lines I had crossed, all the rules I had shattered without a second thought, this was the one thing that stopped me.

It wasn’t fear nor the consequences. It was him. Because crossing this one single line would mean nothing. It couldn’t give me his loyalty, his protection, his… heart.

The realization felt like a punch straight in the middle of my face. His heart, that’s what I craved. The obsession I tried to name twisted into something else entirely.

Feelings! Fucking feelings!

The foundation of my plan, the forced marriage that was supposed to save me, had turned against me like a rusted blade, ready to finish me off.

“Fuck,” I breathed, dragging a hand over my face.

When, in that chain of disasters, had I made such a fatal mistake?