Page 56 of His Tesoro

“That would be so fun,” she said. Then she yawned for the third time.

I stood up. “Time to go.”

All of us moved into the hall, and I noticed Sofiya’s old wheelchair sitting there.

“What’s this doing here?”

“Romeo and I were racing,” she said. “I crushed him, of course. Oh! And we practiced some moves. Look what I can do.” She wheeled back onto her back tires, a huge smile on her face. But I was on the verge of a fucking heart attack.

Images of her losing balance and crashing to the ground flashed before my eyes. “Stop that,” I growled, running to her side and forcing her back on four wheels.

She stared up at me with an adorable pout.

“It’s too dangerous. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“But I looked good, right?”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “You always look good, tesoro,” I muttered.

Based on everyone’s stunned expressions, I’d spoken loud enough for them to hear.

“Let’s go,” I said, irritation seeping through my voice.

Sienna squeezed Sofiya in a tight hug, and my body vibrated with something that felt strangely like jealousy. I huffed and got in the elevator, tapping my foot impatiently.

Sofiya joined me, giving everyone a sweet wave before the doors closed.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. For once, it wasn’t my nightmares keeping me up. It was thoughts of Sofiya—wondering what else was on her list and which items I could help her check off.

I might do just about anything to ensure she was always as happy to see me as she’d been this evening.

And the thought scared me shitless.

30

MATTEO

Sofiya and I fell into a rhythm.

Each morning, I woke early and headed to the gym, working out until I heard her move around in the kitchen. Then I hopped in the shower and jacked off—definitely not fantasizing about my wife the entire time—until I came against the tile wall. Then I got dressed in one of my identical black suits and braced myself before heading into the kitchen, where she would be in the middle of preparing something for breakfast.

A couple of days ago, it had been cinnamon rolls. Yesterday it was some sort of Russian pancake.

This morning she was already perched on a kitchen stool, a plate of waffles in front of her. I cursed myself for moving too slowly this morning. I’d missed watching her move around the kitchen like she belonged here, in our home.

“Morning,” she said sweetly.

I grunted and poured myself a cup of coffee.

“Maybe you’d be less cranky in the mornings if you slept in for once,” she said, a smile playing on her lips.

I scowled. “There will be a delivery for you this afternoon.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, looking up from her breakfast. The kitchen stool she was on had a back to it, but even so, I couldn’t get the image of her falling off of it out of my head. I moved to stand behind her, banding my arms around her chest.

“What are you doing?” she asked, amusement clear in her voice.

“Nothing,” I said with a scowl.

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