Page 13 of Captive Mafia Wife

Callum gives me a grateful smile, squeezing my hand in return. "Thank you, Fredrick. Your support means the world to me. Tell me about this prime piece of real estate you’ve purchased for us."

“The estate was first built in the 1800s—” I’ll have to fill him in on the details of the property later because, at this moment, the heavy wooden doors of the Great Hall swing open and Freya strides in, her ice-blonde hair cascading down her back like a waterfall. She wears a black silk robe over her slender body and puffy pink slippers on her feet.

There’s a rosy flush riding high on her cheekbones, and a cat that’s gotten the cream smile rests on her beautiful face—a look put there by my expert tongue. The secret knowledge turns me on.

Her green eyes flash in surprise to find me here with her brother, and the relaxed look is quickly replaced with distrust."What are you two plotting?" Freya asks, avoiding my gaze.

I hold back from tasting my lips as I watch her.

Callum clears his throat, exchanging a glance with me before speaking. "We were just talking business.”

Freya arches an eyebrow at her brother, clearly skeptical as she ignores me. "Is that so?" She crosses her arms over her chest, her expression daring him to continue. “Callum, this little fireside chat better not have anything to do with our conversation before the party.”

“Just work talk, Freya.” Callum, clearly ready to be out from under her investigative gaze after our conversation, stands, stretching with a yawn. “Fredrick, I’ll go find Declan. He can drive you home.”

“I’ll call my driver.” I stand to follow him from the room, bidding her, “Goodnight, Freya. Sweet dreams.”

Her arms stay crossed over her chest, one hip and her slim chin jutting out at me with defiance as she finally acknowledges my existence.

“Stay,” she demands. “I want to talk to you.”

Callum leaves us.

“Alright.” I remain standing, casually slipping my hands in my pockets. “What’s up?”

She pulls one arm from her chest to point to heaven. “What happened upstairs?”

“Yes?” A sly grin pulls at my mouth as I drag my tongue over my lips for a final taste of her.

“That…” Her arms go back to crossed, a shield to keep me out, but she can’t stop the blush that reddens from watching my lips. “Will never. EVER. Happen again.”

Having had her say, she turns on her pink-slippered heel like she’s wearing five-inch stilettos and stridesfrom the room.

I can’t resist her. I can’t ignore the heated tension that tugs and pulls between us, no matter how hard I try. Freya is a temptation I can no longer deny, a forbidden fruit I must taste again, even as I assist her brother in finding her a husband.

I need more Freya.

Chapter Five

Freya

I wakewith a headache like I’ve knocked my head against a concrete floor. There was so much ass-shaking at Level Z it’s possible I slipped and forgot. Not quite ready for the morning sun slicing through the space between my pale blue damask curtains, I pat my hand around the nightstand, searching for my phone.

I feel something out of place. Whining as I open my eyes to investigate, I glance over at the table. Praise the Lord—just what I need.

“Kathy, housekeeper of the year.” Flipping over on my back, I tip back the tablets and electrolyte water she’s left on my nightstand. “Make that of the century. Such a dear.”

Flopping back down against my massive cloud of feather pillows, I throw an arm over my eyes, attempting to block out the punishing sun. “Och, what a night!”

A fuzzy memory from last night’s party at Level Z comes to my aching mind. A strange man with ice blue eyes and a black vine tattoo creeping up his neck, trying to get my attention.

At first, I thought he was hitting on me, but then I had that vague flashback moment where you realize you’ve seen a person before. He seemed familiar, but I also acknowledged I was wearing Scotch goggles. Even through my alcohol-induced haze, the seriousness in his icy gaze grabbed me.

What did he say? Was he warning me about something? A bartender—one of our Glasgow Kings, a younger man I didn’t recognize as an islander—came around the bar and ushered him away before he could get his message to me. Or hit on me. Not sure which.

Prickles crawl across the back of my neck as I kick myself for not paying more attention to him then.

“Pfft. No regrets,” I assure myself, moving on.

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