Page 76 of Filthy Little Regrets

Twisting her lips to the side, she watches me work. “Apparently, I’m supposed to get to work making babies?”

Pausing, I glance at her. “Only if you want.”

Her eyebrows lift. “You do?”

More than you fucking know, Wife. I already wish she was pregnant, but I’m not trying to make her hate me. I’m here for the long game. Cassia will love me, and if she allows, we can get to work on the baby part. “I didn’t.”

“Didn’t,” she says, fiddling with her wineglass. “What changed?”

I lick my lips and hold her gaze, making it as obvious as I can.

“Oh,” she murmurs, glancing away. “Why didn’t you want to before?”

“Because of Darius.” Admitting it aloud brings up ugly memories from the past. They threaten to take over. Heavy fists. Kicks to the ribs. Screams that haunt my nightmares. The roar of the rich and famous outside the ring. The numbing realization that losing meant my sisters were in danger, making me desperate to win. Fighting for survival. Phantom aches of pain roll through my body, and my ribs threaten to tear apart.

A soft hand on my arm rips me out of my mind and back into the present. Cassia’s amber and vanilla scent invades my senses, soothing the phantom ache in my ribs. “Mace?” Those icy blue eyes see into the depths of my soul.

My breath freezes in my lungs, but I don’t look away from her inquisitive gaze, even though I’m worried she’ll see the hollow pit inside of me and run screaming. She holds me enraptured, searching, and as if she’s scouring through that same memory, her eyes narrow. “Fuck your parents,” she murmurs.

“Fuck my Dad,” I correct.

She shakes her head in disagreement but doesn’t elaborate. I’ve never considered if I should be upset with my mom. She was as stuck as I was. She did her best, but how could she stop him from dragging me to the cage fights?Should she have done more, though?I swat the thought away. I don’t like being mad at my mom.

“Your dad kind of sucks,” she says.

That’s the fucking truth. I chuckle. Cassia’s lips curveinto that cute grin I crave more than coffee, and she steps closer, invading my space and filling it with her intoxicating scents. The laughter dies in my throat as her attention drops to my lips. A line forms between her eyebrows, and she flits her gaze back up to meet mine.

“Mace?”

“Yeah?”

“What did he—” She pauses, face wrinkling as she shakes her head. “I’m still hungry,” she says instead of whatever she wanted to ask.

And because I’m not ready to share that darkness with her just yet, I let the almost question slide as she moves back to her spot on the counter. Setting a pan on the stove and turning on the burner, I smooth a generous pat of butter on both pieces of the bread while Cassia watches me.

“How did you learn to cook?” she asks as I compose the sandwiches.

“Trial and error,” I confess. Chef only comes a few times a week, and I like to know how to take care of myself. Eating and enjoying the food were two distinctly different things, and I worked hard to accomplish the second.

She watches me place each sandwich in the pan, and I don’t hate the attention. “Do you cook?”

“Mimi taught me. Dad was terrible in the kitchen,” she says with a laugh, shaking her head at the thought. “But it’s kind of hard to cook for one person.”

“You can make me food anytime,” I offer.

She rolls her eyes. “Nice try.”

I run my fingers over her thigh as I pass on my way to grab plates. It’s impossible to miss her quick inhalation. I’ve noticed how much she craves being touched, even if she won’t admit it, and I try to give her as much as reasonably appropriate, given that she still hates me. Placing thedishes on the counter, I flip the sandwiches, eyeing Cassia while the next side toasts.

“There’s more wine if you want it.”

She grins and hops off the counter, grabbing the bottle and refilling her cup. “I used to hate you.”

“You’ve mentioned it a time or two.”

“But,” she says with a heavy sigh, “I’m not sure I can hate anyone who makes me grilled cheese.”

“Well, at least my plan is working.” I scoop the sandwiches out of the pan, plopping one onto each plate. The gooey cheese clings to the knife as I slice them into triangles. I set the knife down and grab one plate, heading to where Cassia is resting her hip against the counter. “You’ll love me soon enough,” I say as I hand her the sandwich.

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