Page 38 of Satin Empire

“It’s dangerous, isn’t it? War stuff, right?”

“That’s the only reason Renzo ever fucking calls these days.” I turn my back on her, regretting saying that out loud.

“Be careful, okay?”

I pause, surprised, and turn back. “I didn’t know you cared.”

“We just got married. I don’t want to end up a widow already.” She gives me a sly smile. “Give it a month at least. Make sure I’m on all the accounts before you get yourself murdered.”

I laugh and walk over to her, the hell with everything. I grab her waist, yank her against me, and crush my mouth to hers, kissing her hard, kissing her the way she deserves to be kissed. And fuck, she melts against me, her mouth like heaven as her lips part to let my tongue inside, and I claim her with that kiss. It’s a promise and a prophecy and a bookmark, letting her know that when I get back, I’m going to follow through with everything this kiss means.

My fingers dig into her hips and she whimpers as I taste her mouth, and when I pull back, we’re both breathing hard.

“I’ll see you later,” I say but don’t turn away.

“You better.”

I grunt as if she kicked me in the stomach. I’ve never had someone care about me like that before—and I’m not even sure she does, or at least she didn’t, only she’s looking at me now like she needs me in her bed, and I love that look more than life itself.

I kiss her one more time before I tear myself away and go take care of my business.

Chapter 19

Alana

Holy hell, that blistering kiss.

I knew we had chemistry—I mean, it’s pretty hard to ignore at this point—but I didn’t understand just how strong it was until that freaking kiss.

Like he was kissing me for the last time, or maybe for the first time of many to come, I can’t even tell anymore. But that kiss left a mark on my lips like he’s finally dropping the facade and letting me see the real starved wolf hiding underneath that cocky grin.

It’s scary and it feels so fucking good.

Which means of course I’m up late worried about him.

I text Noah a little bit about my day. He teases me about how stressed I am. Welcome to the life of a mob wife, sucks to suck. My cousin isn’t exactly soft and caring, but he’s right at least. I never cared when my stepfather or any of his soldiers went off to do something stupid and potentially dangerous, but now that I’m starting to have these feelings for Carlo, suddenly I don’t want my husband getting shot in the face.

I don’t know what’s changing my mind. Partially it’s how much I enjoyed myself with Maddie, Allegra, and Molly, but mostly it’s the way he opened up to me out back about his mother. I caught a glimpse of him, the real Carlo, the version of himself he hides from everyone else. I doubt they even realize he’s there. Carlo’s good at masking his feelings with jokes and an easygoing attitude, but now I see there’s a whole depth underneath that holds onto pain in a way I never would’ve guessed.

I want to get to know him more, and I want to kiss him too, which means he has to come home tonight.

Midnight comes and goes. I’m sick with worry and can’t sleep. I’m tempted to call him, but if he’s in the middle of doing something dangerous, I don’t want to distract him. It’d be my luck, getting him killed because I can’t handle my anxiety.

But around two in the morning, after I paced around the house and rearranged the living room one more time for good measure, the front door opens.

I hurry downstairs and find Carlo in the kitchen pouring himself a scotch with one arm, the other cradled against his chest. There’s blood on his shirt and he’s covered in sweat, and when he looks up, his eyes are distant and haunted, but the moment he spots me, some color comes back to his face, and a little smile quirks the edges of his mouth.

“Well, hello there, baby,” he says, almost crooning the words. “Don’t you look fucking delicious.”

My eyes go wide before I realize I’m wearing tiny shorts and a revealing tank top, mostly because it’s what I’m used to sleeping in back home. Except now that I live with Carlo, I’m going to have to be a little more conservative in my choice of pajamas, unless I want his eyes and his hands all over me.

“You’re hurt,” I say, choosing to ignore the way his wolf side is on full display, the eager predator gazing at his latest snack. “What happened?”

“Got knifed,” he says and when he sees the horror on my face, he quickly adds, “I’m fine, it’s just a scratch.”

“Let me see it.” I hurry over and pry his arm away, ignoring his protests.

The scratch is a long cut down his forearm. It’s ugly, but it isn’t actively bleeding, which means I don’t think it’ll need stitches, but it’ll definitely leave a scar.

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