Page 161 of The Christmas Wife

Truly that hour foretold

Sorrow to this,"he recites.

"What the fuck was that about?" I growl.

"Byron." He blinks.

My heartbeat ratchets up, "Who the fuck are you talking about?"

"Lord Byron, the poet," he replies. "Who did you think it was?"

I shake my head. Of course, it was the poet. This fucker has no connection to the Byron that the Seven had identified as the head of the Mafia... The ones responsible for kidnapping us and changing our fucking lives. Does he?

"Don’t delay." He turns to stare up at the apartment block.

I follow his gaze to the window on the first floor, her apartment. A man's shoulders fill the space.

"The fuck?" I straighten, stare at the window.There's no one there.I didn't imagine that. I didn't.

Had she replaced me that quickly? I'd barely left and she'd found someone else to take my place? Someone else to bring her to orgasm, to hold her when she shatters, someone else to gazeinto those baby blues of hers and declare his love for her as he holds her in his arms? "How dare she?" I stalk forward, retrace my steps to the apartment block.

47

Amelie

What the hell had happened? One second, he'd been tickling me and we'd been laughing together. The next, he'd rolled off me, off my bed, headed out of the apartment—and what the hell was that whole thing about not having a future together? Did he mean it? That that... Dumbass fruitcake. That... Mother-trifle... Argh! I can't even get my insults together.

I stand in the middle of the kitchen surveying the remnants of the apple pie—now crumbled all over the dining table. I fold my arms around my waist, over the shirt I'd slipped on, his shirt... Because Mr Alpha dickhead had marched out leaving it behind. I glance out the window. He had to be cold with that bare chest of his exposed to the elements. No doubt, every woman who passed him would ogle him. No doubt, he'd indulge them too and preen.

I curl my fingers into fists and my fingernails dig into my palms. The hell is wrong with me? Why do I already miss him? Do I want to see him again? Why the hell do I want to spend time with a man who is an obnoxious, full-of-himself prat of thehighest order. I lean forward, scoop up a crumb of the apple pie. I suck on my finger and the familiar taste of sweet and savory fills my mouth, interspersed with that edgy, darkness that is him. I stare at my wet finger?—

That's what it is. He is the contrast to my forced self-confidence. I mean, I can try to pretend to the world that I have it all under control. I can live by the “fake it 'til I make it” motto, which I had embraced as my own so long ago— Except, I could never fool him.

He'd cut through all that sassiness, all that bravado I present to the world, and known me. He'd seen me for what I am. A woman who wants to be taken, to be possessed, to be taken care of. With him... I trust him to take control. Only with him can I find the strength to surrender completely; and he...? He'd known what I needed even before I had. He'd seen me for the eclair I am. All hard on the outside, but drop me in water and I'll dissolve and impart my sweetness to my surroundings—no wait, that metaphor is all wrong—I mean, hard on the outside, soft on the inside... Well, partially... There is more to me than that. I am more like a sticky toffee pudding—mess with me and I'll screw you up bad... Hell, what am I thinking?

Fact is, there's something between us—something hot and vital and real, something that attracts us to each other even as the contrasts highlight how different we are. I hate him. I love him. I can't live without him. I stiffen. Damn, why the hell did I have to go and fall for the wrong man? At least, he'd confessed he loves me—right before he'd walked out on me. Why the hell can't he let me in on his secrets? Can’t he see I want to understand him? That I want to spend my life with him? And he wants it too; he does. Only the alphahole has too much of a bloody ego to see it.

I kick the chair in front of me, which topples over. Pain shoots through my foot. "Ow." I hop around on one foot, thenfall against the table, which creaks, put out a hand to right myself, and my fingers brush against the spatula I had used earlier. It hits the kitchen timer, which rolls over. Ah, just what I am looking for.

I snatch up the egg-timer, rotate the dial, and the ticking of the countdown fills the room. I turn toward the oven when the thud of a footstep vibrates behind me. My heart slams into my chest.Is it him? Is he back?The dense scent of a man's cologne fills my senses.

I've smelled this scent before; it's someone else. Someone who is in my kitchen, with me. My hackles rise. I grab the spatula on the table, turn as a hand closes over my mouth. I scream but the sound emerges muffled. My heart begins to thud. My throat closes.Let go of me, let go.I swipe at his arm with my weapon of choice. His grip over my face tightens. I pull my knee up to kick back at him. He grabs me around my waist.

"Stop struggling or I'll hurt you," he snarls in my ear. His voice is sharp, an edge of desperation heightening his tone. Hell, this man is dangerous. He wouldn't hesitate to follow up on his promise.

I slump in his grasp. He begins to drag me across the kitchen when I hear, "Amelie?" Weston's voice calls out from the direction of the living room, "Where the fuck are you? Who the fuck are you with? Couldn't wait to get me out your hair and invite your lover in, huh?"

His footsteps approach.OMG, it's him.I need to get his attention. If I can just manage to get this intruder's hand off of my mouth... I begin to struggle in earnest, hit out with my leg, pull back my elbow, and it connects with his stomach.

He grunts, then begins to drag me toward the cupboard in the corner. No way, no way am I letting him get me in there. I bite down on his hand. He swears but doesn't release me. He yanks on my hair so hard that I see stars. Pain ricochets downmy spine and tears of frustration fill my eyes. Dammit, I am not giving in like this. I refuse to be a damsel in distress. Fuck this. I double up my knee then kick back. I connect with his shin, and pain thuds up my leg. The bastard huffs out a breath. His grip loosens. Finally! I wrench my face to the side, then scream.

"Amelie." Weston barges into the room.

The intruder swings around, putting me in in front of him. He swings his arm around my neck, yanks me against him. He's tall and broad; the heat of his body curls over me and my skin crawls. "Let me...go." I cough, swipe at his arm with my spatula. He grabs it, wrenches it from my hold, then throws it at Weston, who steps aside in a move so graceful that I blink. The man can move...and not just in bed. If I get out of this alive, I am going to sit on him, in said bed, and ensure that we not leave that space for weeks.

Weston glances at me, "You okay?" His voice is toneless. His features are hard. Gone is the kinky doctor, the demanding lover, the son who cares for his mother... In its place, is a man far more lethal than the intruder who has me in his grasp.

"Amelie?" Weston snaps, "Answer me."

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