Page 26 of Her Cruel Bodyguard

I lift my hand and smack my cheek hard, the sting firing through me and pinging in my head like some broken church bell.

His eyes fly wide, “Don’t you fucking…” I hit again, trapping his words, and he is unto me, clasping my wrists behind me with one of his hands and driving me back until I am pressing against the rocky wall behind us. “Don’t you ever,” he grits. “Don’t ever do that again,” he jerks me, and tears collect in my eyes.

It’s the first time I have seen, felt, his anger directed at me; I both hate it and want it. He should feel what he does to me. He should feel how helpless I feel.

I don’t care that I am throwing myself at him. I don’t care that many people out there would say a lady should have some self-control and let the man be the one to throw himself at her feet. I don’t care for such things.

With Fabio, I don’t care.

I want to do it all. I want to let him see it all. This is war. And I plan on coming out victorious.

He is fighting against us, and I am fighting for us.

“It is my body, and I will do what I want with…” he swallows my word with his lips covering mine, and I melt into him. He kisses like he wields his gun the few times I have seen him do it during target practice. It’s commanding. It’s enchanting. It leaves no room for any argument about whether he is skilled.

He pulls away and curses under his breath.

“I am sorry,” he groans, the sound animalistic but not surprising.

“I deserve more than your stupid apologies,” I stamp my feet, and the fight leaves him.

He nods, “You do.”

“But you won’t tell me?” I stomp to my camera and pick it off the floor, picking up my heart in the process.

“I will,” he clears his throat and looks into the distance as if he needs some higher authority to whisper to him and tell him it’s okay to tell me.

“You know what?” Thinking through it, I don’t want to hear it anymore if it feels like I am forcing him to open up to me about something that affects us. “Die with it,” I dust my camera against my dress. I cannot do the same to my heart, because it is shattered.

“I will tell you, but I have to get you to a nice restaurant and put your dress to good use,” he steps aside and gestures for me to go before him. “You get cranky when you are hungry.”

I do get cranky when I am hungry.

“I don’t want to go to a restaurant with you, I don’t want to go on a date with you if you won’t do the right thing,” I strut ahead of him. “But I need food, and I am willing to eat in the car,” I holler over my shoulder.

Knowing he has a big reveal to make is part of the reason I feel bloated after having just a bite of my vegan burger.

I want to hear him, but I feel like my body won’t be able to digest my food when he is done talking. That or Fabio just makes things a lot heavier than they should be.

“I am done eating,” I drop the burger into the paper bag, sip my coke, and then drop the cup back into the cup holder.

“You have barely…”

“Fabio De Luca, can you get to the point so I know if I will be able to eat at all for the next year?” I clip, my temper firing.

I want answers and since he has offered to give me some, I need him to get to it before I lose my mind thinking of all the worst-case scenarios. Like him nursing the idea of becoming a priest.

I can’t put anything past him.

“I have a son,” he grips the steering wheel and throws his eyes to the side, avoiding my eyes.

The rock of information floats miraculously in the air, not hitting me like I had thought whatever it was he was going to reveal would. A son?

I pick up my burger and bite angrily into it.

A son?

Is a son the big reason we cannot be together? I am supposed to have my heart broken because he has a son and doesn’t trust that I can handle that information?

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