Page 79 of Captive Mafia Wife

“Yes.”

She stares at me until she reads in my eyes that I’m serious. “I laughed when I read it. I thought it was a joke. I thought you were attempting to be more lighthearted.” She shrugs. “I mean, I did think you’d taken it a bit far by sleeping somewhere else in the house last night, but I was so tired I passed out after only waiting about five minutes for you to come to bed.”

“I meant it.”

She puts the teacup down. The glass clinks as the cup rests in the saucer. Her eyes lock with mine for what feels like a full minute.

I don’t look away.

“Och! Goodness. You poor thing!” She moves her chair back, coming over to me. “Scootch back.”

Obeying, I push my chair back.

She slides into my lap, wrapping her arms around my neck, and says, “Fredrick. Don’t you know a thing about islanders?”

I think about the people I know from their small island.

“Hard-working, trustworthy, loyal.” I add, “Possibly to a fault.”

Perched on my lap, she slips a cool hand on either side of my face, bringing me close enough to smell the scent of her floral perfume. “When we married, I said till death do us part. I meant it. I know you did as well. My brother never would have let you bring me here if you didn’t.”

“But…I—I can’t say those words you need to hear.”

Her brow knits. “What words?”

I stare at her, begging her to say them for me because I cannot.

“You mean those three wee words that make the world go round? I love you?” She laughs. The sound is like music to me. “You’d best love me; I went off the pill after—a few weeks ago.”

“Wait…what?”

“Seeing you with Ophelia Pearl started my biological clock ticking like crazy! I tossed the contraceptive pills in the trash.” She waves a hand through the air. “Truly didn’t think ye would mind since you suggested the same months ago.”

My heart hammers in my ears. She’s ignoring the considerable admission I’ve just shared with her. That I can’t tell her I love her. It’s too much for her to process. She’s doing that thing where she pushes her emotions down, ignoring them.

I press on. “Freya. Did you hear what I said?”

“Aye, I heard you.” To my disbelief, she starts to laugh. “Fredrick. If you loved me any more than you do now, you’d be a psycho stalker.” She tilts her head. “You kinda already are psycho for me.”

“I’m not capable of love?—”

She puts a finger over my lips. “Hush. Don’t ever let me hear you say that again.”

I put my hand over hers. “But?—”

“Haud yer wheesht! And that is NOT a polite way of saying to be quiet, so you’d best heed my words and hush. Now listen to what I have to say.” She holds up a hand, ticking things off on her pretty fingers. “Do you trust me?”

“With my life.”

Tick. A finger goes down. “Would you make sacrifices for me?”

“I would die a thousand deaths for you, ma chérie,” I say.

Another finger is gone. “Am I the first thing you think about when you wake up?”

“Every single morning. And the last thing on my mind when I go to bed.” I don’t tell her, but often, I dream of her as well.

A third finger is ticked off. “And when you say machérie?” Her arched brows raise. “You’re the French one here. Please tell me if you know what that translates to?”

---