Page 22 of Filthy Little Regrets

“And you’re so observant,” I say, voice saccharine.

He works the eggs like someone who’s had years of practice. I never in a million years would have pictured Mace making his own food. He’s probably had personal chefs his entire life. Why would he waste time learning to cook when he could be using his money to dominate the world?

I glare at him as he fixes up two plates. Freshfruit. Toast. The scramble. A perfect morning meal. I appreciate the food, but I’m still furious about the impossible circumstances. Helpless, knowing he’s my only lifeline.

Mace spreads butter on the toast, and my mind seizes on the fact that he’s far too comfortable going through my things. Anger is the easiest emotion to embrace.

“Who said you could use my bread?”

Giving me a look, Mace grabs a plate and a fork and walks toward me. I cross my arms, hoping he can feel the hate pressing around him like the heat from a sauna. He places my breakfast on the counter and steps in front of me, crossing his arms, covering part of the open maw of a grayscale skull on his chest. He’s so tall, I have to crane my neck. Sometimes I hate being short.

“Do you want to fight?”

I scowl. “What?”

“You heard me. Are you trying to pick a fight?”

Yes. No. Maybe. The lines on my face deepen. “And what if I said yes?”

Narrowing his eyes, he places his palms on either side of me, caging me in and leaning down until we’re at eye level. “If it’s a fight you want, I’ll give it to you, but if I win”—he pauses and searches my face, a slow and wicked smirk cutting across his handsome face—“if I win, I get to do whatever I want to you.”

“Fuck you,” I fire back.

“You will.”

Like hell. “In your dreams.”

His lips twitch. “You have.”

“Argh!” I push at his chest, but he grabs my wrists and tugs me against his body. “You’re not as funny as you think you are,” I growl.

“Stop. You’re making me blush.” He skims his mouthover mine, and the shock of his lips steals the fight right out of me. With a grin, he releases me. “We’ll eat, then go find a ring.” Mace grabs his plate and takes a seat at the table without another word or look in my direction.

After the bickering, the loss of his voice is harsh enough to suck the air from my lungs. Dead air that’s louder than being surrounded by thousands of people talking crawls over my skin. Burrows into my marrow. Brings up memories I want buried. Gooseflesh ripples down my spine, and my throat goes dry.

Too quiet, too quiet, too quiet.

I grab my plate and head to my desk, pulling on my headphones and blaring my favorite song on repeat, trying to drown out the cacophony of silence that’s been haunting me for years.

Fuck Mace.

The ride to the jewelry store was stifling, and I’m more than ready to escape his Range Rover as soon as he parks. Neither of us speaks as we get out and head to the parking garage elevator. The line that’s lodged above Mace’s nose burrows deep into his skin. I don’t know what his problem is. I’m the one being forced into a marriage.

A group of businesspeople appear right as the doors to the lift glide open. Mace and I enter first, and they follow, piling in and filling the carriage with the scent of stale coffee, long hours, and not enough pay. I wrinkle my nose and try not to breathe. A man in a suit bumps into me and doesn’t seem to care. Annoyance shoots through me. As a general rule, I don’t like people, especially strangers who have no sense of common decency.

Mace’s hand finds my hip and draws me close until we’re only centimeters apart, inadvertently protecting the guy from the reprimand on the tip of my tongue. I don’t feel as trapped with the extra space. Warmth seeps from the pads of Mace’s fingers, which are curled at my hip bone, and the heat spreads through my stomach as his vetiver cologne coils around me. I take a deep breath. At least he smells good. As his thumb strokes over my side, I stiffen, tipping my head up to give him a warning look, but his attention is focused straight ahead.

Unaffected.

I hate that he has the power to unsettle me with a simple touch. That the rest of my life might be subject to his will. He glances at me, gaze tracing over my features. I’m not dumb. I know that he’s attracted to me; he’s made it more than obvious plenty of times before. Maybe I’m not as powerless as I thought. The feminist in me weeps at the thought of using my looks to get my way, but a woman has to do what a woman has to do.

Instead of pulling away, I wrap my arm around his waist and press my body against his. He turns toward me in question, and I take advantage, slotting my chest against his front. With our height difference, my breasts rest right below his pecs, and I can feel every pronounced ripple of his abs.Jesus, he must live at the gym.

I gaze up at Mace and bite my lip.

His eyes narrow and his plush mouth parts to ask a question.

Before I can think better of it, I rise on my toes, grab the back of his head and pull his lips to meet mine. Mine smooth over his, and I swipe my tongue between the seam of his mouth. He tastes like coffee and bad decisions. Bittersweet. For a second, he’s too shocked to do anything, andbefore he can respond, I drop back to my heels and end the kiss as abruptly as he ended the conversation earlier.

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