“I will also hurt whomever puts one hand on you. You are mine, Delilah. Your worries, laughter, fears, the air in your lungs, belong to me.”
“They don’t belong to you until I sign that contract,” I remind him, overcoming the loud thump of my racing heart.
Carmine gestures toward the kitchen. “After you, Sweetling.”
His fingers brush my leg when I walk by him, and his footsteps sound behind me.
I don’t need to see him to know he’s watching me. I can feel his gaze roaming my backside, and a flush warms my cheeks from the weight of his stare. What kind of woman does it make me to enjoy the attention of a villain?
In the kitchen, my fingers skim the breakfast bar’s granite countertop. The stools are strategically placed the same width apart. All the appliances are stainless steel, and light bulbs hang in various lengths above a kitchen table that can easily sit twelve people.
A glossy and matte black mural covers the wall facing me. The more I look at it, the more confused I am trying to interpret the random angry, tear-like slashes. It’s emotional, and the longer I stare at it, the more I fall into the abyss of emotion.
“It’s called ‘Oblivion.'” Carmine slides out a chair for me, and I take a seat. The shirt I’m wearing rides up my thighs a few inches.
“It’s haunting,” I say, honestly, folding my hands on the table.
Carmine sits at the head of the table. His chair is different from the others, larger with carvings engraved in the wood. He leans over, slipping one arm behind my chair and gripping the edge of the seat between my legs with the other. He yanks my chair forward, dragging me closer to him.
I yelp, slapping the table with my palms.
His fingers tease my inner knee before drifting up my leg and tracing circles on my thigh, close to where I’ve been hiding how much I burn for him.
“And so are you,” he whispers into my ear, gripping the hem of the shirt before tugging it down to cover more of my legs. “You will test me, I can already tell, but you will not show anyone what is mine. We are not the only ones who live here. Do you understand me? I’d hate to have to blind one of my brothers.”
“You wouldn’t.” But as I search the inky pools of his eyes, I know he’s telling the frightful truth. “They are your brothers. You couldn’t possibly-”
“-It would be hard for me, but I would.” He toys with the collar of my shirt. “They would do the same to me, to anyone who threatened to take advantage of a sight that did not belong to them.”
“That’s barbaric.” The words are strangled in the back of my throat from the terror of his inability to tell lies and the lust clutching my tongue. I don’t know what’s scarier, the fact that I love how afraid I am of him or how much his intensity turns me on.
“It’s the way we are. It’s how we live.” He says it easily, matter-of-factly, as if anyone who doesn’t understand must just accept it as the way things are.
A banging of pots and pans sounds in the kitchen, and I jump.
“It’s only Marie, my private chef,” he explains.
Of course, he has a private chef.
A silver platter is placed in front of me, and I lean back surprised by the presentation. I’m used to either takeout pizza or anything I can pop in the oven to heat. Ramen is good, too. It’s cheap and fast.
“Chicken Alfredo with steamed broccoli with a side of lemon arugula salad.” Marie lifts the lid, and steam billows from the pasta to my nose. As I inhale, my mouth waters from the delicious aromas.
Marie sets down Carmine’s plate next. He gives the older woman a small, genuine smile.
He seems to care for her in his way.
“Thank you, Marie. It looks wonderful, as always.”
“Of course, Mr. Milazzo. I’ll be right back with your drinks. A nice simple sweet tea.”
She hurries away in her apron, vanishing into the kitchen. I pick up my fork, but my appetite has vanished. How am I supposed to eat when my freedom is on a timer? I’m about to be shackled.
“You need to eat everything on your plate.” He points to my food with his fork.
“How do you expect me to eat when we have so much to discuss?”
Marie takes that moment to return with our drinks before disappearing into the kitchen again.
“Don’t worry about Marie overhearing anything. She knows not to say a word. She’s trustworthy,” he explains.
“I’m not worried about her.” I push the pasta around, and with a clatter of his fork, he drags me closer to him, the legs of the chair rubbing against the floor.
Next, he grabs my plate to bring it closer. “If I have to feed you myself, I will, Sweetling.”
“I’ll eat after we sign the contract,” I say, anxiety twisting my stomach. I don’t know what a contract is supposed to look like, or what to expect. How do I know he won’t be asking for more than he’s already asking for?
What else is there to give?
“You’ll eat now.” He stabs a piece of broccoli from his plate and begins to eat.
“Carmine, please, I’m too nervous.” I decide to answer honestly, wanting him to hear just how scared I am.
He swirls the pasta and lifts the fork in the air, bringing it to my lips. “There’s no need to be nervous. I’m going to take care of you. Now, open.”
“You aren’t feeding me.”
“I will if you won’t eat. I won’t have you starve, or worse. Now.” He leans forward; the shadow of his body covering his plate. “Open.”
“This is ridiculous.”
“Then stop acting ridiculous and open your fucking mouth.” He doesn’t say it with harshness but with want instead.
I part my lips and sit completely still.
“Good girl,” he praises, pushing the fork between my lips.
The flavor of the perfectly seasoned cream sauce bursts over my tongue. I moan as I chew, my stomach awakening with hunger again and my nerves settling. I reach for my fork, but his hand falls over mine stopping me.
Without a word or explanation, he wraps the pasta around the fork and lifts it to my mouth again.
Confused, I open my mouth. I want to ask him why he’s doing this, but I know he won’t answer.
“You like being taken care of,” he says, staring at me with that familiar hard edge he shows all his enemies.
“Who doesn’t?” I retort and dab my mouth with my napkin. “Everyone likes to be pampered.”
I reach for my glass of tea and take a few sips. The. tea is sweet and refreshing. “Who doesn’t?” I retort and dab my mouth with my napkin. “Everyone likes to be pampered.”
“We’ll have to agree to disagree.” He stabs a piece of broccoli and holds it in the air.
“I’m not the biggest fan of broccoli.”
“That’s too bad. You need your vegetables.”
With a roll of my eyes, I zip my lips and place my hands on my lap. “I’m not twelve, Carmine. I won’t grow if I eat my greens.”
He prods my mouth. “No, but you’ll have nutrients and be strong, which you’ll need for the things I have planned for you.” A promise of something dark drifts over his features. “So, open your mouth, Delilah.”
I shake my head, defying him.
“Eat three pieces of broccoli. That’s all I ask.”
“What do I get if I do?”
He leans back, sets his fork down, and wipes his mouth with a napkin. Pushing his plate to the side, he reaches into his back pocket, and an envelope appears. “We will go over this contract right now, Sweetling, and put your fears to rest.”
I tap the table with my fingernails and stare at the contract that holds the rest of my life in his hands. “I just have to eat the broccoli?”
He flashes an oddly endearing lop-sided grin, showing a hint of dimples. “That’s it. See? I compromise.”
I immediately pop three broccoli pieces in my mouth, now overflowing with nasty trees, and hold my breath while I chew.
Disgusting.
I swallow; one of the branches catches in my throat, and I cough to dislodge it.