Page 74 of Hers to Control

“I can see that. I didn’t agree to anything.”

She isn’t saying that she won’t marry me, which pretty much means I’ve won. An actual smile spreads over my face. “You didn’t say you won’t, plus, I told you, I’ll wear you down eventually.”

My eyes roam over her naked body. She’s skinnier than she was when I first saw her naked in the safe house, except for the roundness of her belly. I’ll have to make it a point to take her to Mateo’s restaurant often in the next few weeks. She sure enjoyed her pasta there today. I also like the idea of our people there seeing her walk around with that ring on her finger.

Yes, I like that plan.

Mia’s eyes narrow at me, her expression a mixture of annoyance and amusement. “You actually think you can wear me down?” she asks, her tone laced with a challenge.

I grin, the thrill of the chase coursing through my veins. I always thought I could only get this high from stalking assholes who’ll get my knife in their gut, but turns out, chasing down Mia is just as much of a thrill. If not more.

“Damn right, I do,” I reply, leaning in closer until our noses are almost touching. “And you know what? I’ll enjoy every minute of it.”

Her laughter fills the air. “You’re incorrigible, Eric,” she says, shaking her head in mock exasperation.

I shrug, my grin widening. Then I reach out to trace a finger along the curve of her belly. “But hey, at least you’ll never be bored with me around.”

Mia’s laughter fades into a soft sigh as she leans into my touch, her eyes meeting mine with a warmth that sends a jolt of electricity through me. “Fine. You can try, but I’m not making any promises.”

With another smile, I lean in to capture her lips in a deep kiss, savoring the taste of her on my tongue. She’ll get a few months to play this game, but I’ll put the matching ring on her finger by the time Peanut is here.

Because this woman is mine and our baby won’t ever suffer the way she did.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Mia

We stayed at my place above the studio last night. I’d planned on sleeping in, something I hadn’t indulged in for far too long. With my sex-sated body, it had seemed like a real possibility last night, but someone had a different plan. The annoying ringing of my phone yanks me out of my lazy slumber.

I glance at the caller ID, frowning at the familiar number. With a sense of foreboding settling in the pit of my stomach, I answer the call.

“Hello?” My voice comes out shaky, betraying the unease I feel. After everything, I really could have used a break, but no, life doesn’t work like that, does it?

The voice on the other end is not the robotic message about an inmate calling that I expected. “Is this Mia Samson?” the person asks.

“Yes, this is she,” I reply, my heart hammering in my chest. Something about the caller’s tone sets me on edge.

“I’m calling from Millhaven prison,” the person continues, and my stomach drops. “I’m sorry to inform you that your father died yesterday morning.”

The words hit me like a physical blow, knocking the breath from my lungs. I move up on the bed to where I can sit up against the headboard. For a moment, I’m frozen, but then tears blur my vision. Grief mingles with relief, guilt with anger. Relief that he can no longer hurt me or put me in danger. Guilt for feeling relieved that he’s gone now. Anger at the turmoil he brought into my life. But also memories of us together when I was a child. Memories of phone calls where I shared how I was making a life for myself. I’m not sure which emotion is causing the tears. The grief or the guilt.

I take a shaky breath, steeling myself against the tumult of emotions raging in me.

Questions. There are questions I need to ask.

“How?”

“The incident is still under investigation,” the person on the other end says. It’s clear enough, though. This wasn’t a mere accident. “We tried to reach you last night, but couldn’t get through. Given the circumstances, we decided it was best not to leave a message and call again this morning.”

I stay silent, not sure what to say after that. I’d been busy having sex with Eric last night, my phone on silent, somewhere in my pocket.

It doesn’t matter now.

There are probably more questions I should ask. Like whether I need to do something for the funeral. Would I need to sendsomeone to get his body, or would they deal with that? Are there papers they need me to sign?

It’s overwhelming.

Eric’s hand settles on my shoulder. “Give me the phone.”

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