Page 25 of Blades of Obsession

“Aiden. Aiden Moretti.”

“So, you’re Italian?” I ask. The name sounds Italian.

“Technically. An ancestor decades ago came over from Italy with his wife and son. This was when the group was first forming and you didn’t need bloodline ties to join. He just saw it as a way to provide for his family in a new country.”

A part of me wants to know more about the world he’s in, especially since my dad has been involved in it for who knows how long. The other part wants to stay in the blind about it all. They say ignorance is bliss. I decide to leave it for now.

“Do you speak the language?” I ask.

“I know bits and pieces. I’m not fluent, though. My dad knows it, and he taught me here and there. Why, do you like Italian? I can finish learning it for you.”

“No.” I laugh. He’s really absurd. “I was just wondering. I was going to ask you to say something in it.”

He eyes me for a beat, seeming to decide what to say. “ti penso giorno e notte.”

Jesus.

I don’t even know what it means, but it sounds so freaking hot in that language. I wonder what he would sound like whispering Italian in my ear while we—

Clearing my throat, I ask, “Why do they call you Blade, then?”

He smiles cryptically. “There’s reasons.”

The waiter returns and places our food down, the delicious smell immediately clouding the air. Usually, the gluten-free options at food places suck. But this looks amazing.

“So, are you going to tell me why they call you Blade, or do I have to ask around? I’m sure someone would be willing to tell me,” I joke.

“You can ask around. I know one thing, I can make you come with a blade in my hand.” He smirks. “Maybe that’s the reason, maybe not.”

My lips part as I search for a retort, the air seeming to have turned to fire in my chest. “In your dreams.” I roll my eyes, trying to play it off.

“Well, that’s wonderful. Because my dreamsalwayscome true, angel.”

I keep a neutral face, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing his words are affecting me.

“So, you asked me a question. Now it’s my turn to ask you one. What’s something you hate?”

“Cooking,” I blurt out, with a touch more urgency than intended. But I really do hate it. My mom always tried to get me to cook with her, and the few times I did, it was a disaster.

He laughs, taking a sip of his drink. “Hmm, well I swear I will never let you cook for yourself ever again, then. I’m not too bad in the kitchen.”

This man is… I can’t even think of another word other thanbizarre.Is he so obsessed with me that just because Imentionedoncehow much I hate cooking, he swears I’ll never have to cook again?

The rest of the dinner passes with light conversation and he still insists on touching my hand every so often.

“You haven’t even eaten a third of your plate,” he points out.

Yeah, so you don’t think I’m a fat pig.

“Do I need to come over there, sit you on my lap, and feed you myself?” His tone is playful, but there’s a glint in his eye that tells me he’d do it—and enjoy every second of it.

I shake my head.

“So finish eating whatever amount makesyoufull. Not the amount you think I want to see you eat.”

I blow out a small breath and pick up my fork. There’s really no use in arguing, and it doesn’t hurt that the food is amazing.

“Good girl,” he praises, and my heart skips a literal beat at the words, wanting to hear it again.

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