Page 35 of King of Obsession

His fingers danced over the cords, eliciting a discordant melody.

Most days, I loathed any stranger’s intrusion into my peaceful, quiet, and sacred silence.

Yet Alessio’s presence and his strumming gave me a certain peace.

I relaxed into it, let the chords soothe me, a sensation I’d not experienced in months.

‘Dinner is ready,’ I announced in time.

He joined me at my humble table with a gruff grunt of thanks.

Still unable to meet his gaze, I served him a rich vegetable and meatball stew and a fresh loaf I’d baked the day before.

The butter was sourced from a farm down the mountain, and the herbs, carrots, and broccoli came from my garden.

Our food was consumed in silence for the most part.

I kept my eyes on my plate.

He asked about the food, using spare words.

I noted how he listened to me when I used halting words to share my one passion: my recipes and the ingredients from my garden.

His appreciation of the fare came in murmurs in Italian, no less.

He was not a conversationalist. He didn’t say much about himself, unaware—or perhaps well aware—of how his raw yet timbered, deep, rough, gravelly growls and concise responsesturned me on.

Because, hell, was he intense.

His entire attention fixed on me on me through the meal, assessing me, raking me, breaking me down.

When he’d cleared his plate, he leaned back in the chair, spreading out his arms, wincing as his shoulder twisted.

‘Promise me Guilia is safe?’ I blurted, fighting the invisible shackles he had on me.

His gaze flicked over me, his tongue playing with his inner cheek. ‘You’ve nothing to fuckin’ worry about, bella.’

His delivery was crude, but when I glanced for a moment at his face, my instinct told me his word was bond.

While my eyes danced away, he kept his leonine stare on me. Rolling his gold coin over his knuckles and licking the corner of his lip in a freakin’ sensual habit.

My face heated.

With a deep inhale, I gathered the used cutlery and plates.

He reached his free hand to me when I part rose from my seat.

‘Grazie,’ he growled, reaching for my cheek, cupping it, and stroking a finger on the edge of my mouth. ‘For dinner.’

I tilted my head at him, eyes flashing with warning.

‘You’re impossible.’

‘You don’t know the half of it,’ he rasped.

I left the table in a huff, retreating to the kitchen basin under the long, expansive window.

I fussed with clearing the plates, not quite seeing the darkening sky beyond the glass as my skin pulsated where he’d touched it.

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