Page 44 of The Contract

Everything inside me freezes, heart skidding to a stop. “What?”

Pain flickers behind his guarded eyes—a fracture in marble. When he speaks, the words cut deeper than any blade. “My father’s been missing for years. Long enough they’re ready to declare him dead—bury an empty box and call it closure.” His voice cracks, roughened. “He’s gone. And hope is crueler than grief.”

My heart twists, tangling with his.

His thumb traces softly along my lower lip, and my breath shatters, hitching painfully. Transfixed, he stares as my lips part instinctively, aching for the forbidden taste of him. “Why aren’t you afraid of me?”

“Afraid?” I echo, my voice barely holding steady as his fingertips trail lightly over the curve of my breast.

Terrified would be closer to the truth.

I’m scared shitless by how effortlessly he crawls beneath my skin, sinks into my bones, and claims something I can’t take back.

Of the shadows haunting his gaze. Dark, turbulent waters edged with raw pain that soften unbearably when I stare a moment too long.

Terrified of the brutal gentleness of his fingertips as they brush away my tears, as if he could erase every scar, undo every ugly thing ever done to me.

And what scares me most of all…how easily—how willingly—I could let him.

Before I can answer, the harsh buzz of a cellphone slices between us, shattering the fragile spell.

Once. Twice. Again.

Until Dante silences it with a muttered curse, barely a breath of, “Fucking Enzo.”

Reality crashes back full force, slamming a mile-high wall in between us.

“I don’t fear you.” The lie scorches my throat. “I hate you.”

Hating him—hating them—every last D’Angelo—is the frayed thread barely holding me together, and I’m clinging to it for dear life.

Instead of recoiling away, he fists the length of my hair, forcing me closer.

I gasp.

“I’m a horrible man who’s done unspeakable things,” he whispers, the fire of his lips brushing mine. “You should hate me.”

His grip tightens, delivering the perfect bite of pain that jolts down my spine, tightening my nipples to aching points, igniting molten heat between my thighs.

His voice drops lower, more dangerous, more intimate as his hand slides past the small of my back, to my ass. “I’ll wear your hate like a fucking crown.”

A sticky cocktail of fear and desire sets another tear free, until his kiss captures it, branding the wet trail dry.

He wedges a powerful thigh between my legs, pressing unapologetically against the throbbing ache. Friction spikes unbearably good.

A moan escapes, hips shifting involuntarily.

Satisfaction flickers beneath the thick sweep of his lashes. “You like that?”

He already knows the answer. Knows I like it. Want it. Need it. “Fuck you.”

My heart crashes violently in my chest, and when he shifts again, my teeth bite down hard on my lip.

“You need a monster? I’m the fucking devil at your service.”

My body responds, writhing shamelessly, grinding harder… deeper…

“That’s it,” he murmurs, guiding my hips. “Make yourself come, baby.”

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