Page 30 of Filthy Little Regrets

“No,” I snap, moving away.

He tucks his bottom lip between his teeth and takes two quick steps. My heartbeat falters, and I gasp, stepping back, coming flush with the wall.Good job, Cassia, you let him corner you.

Mace presses both palms on either side of my head and gazes down at me. My pulse roars in my ears.

“Let’s get a few things straight,” he says, throwing my words back at me. “My wife doesn’t need to cook. My wife doesn’t need to clean. My wife doesn’t need to do my laundry.”

I glance away. “I’m not your wife.”

“Mmm, see, that’s where you’re wrong.” Mace cups my chin and draws my gaze back to meet his. “You will be my wife, and the only person I want sucking my dick”—he brings his lips dangerously close to mine—“is you. The onlywoman I want on her hands and knees is you. The only pussy I want grinding over my face”—he brushes his mouth over mine—“is yours.”

Heat blooms across my cheeks and I pull away. “You’re filthy.”

He smooths his thumb over my bottom lip, and I nip at it, earning a hiss and flash of dark delight. “Mmm. Maybe, but one of these days, I’m going to have you spread across my bed and you’ll be begging to come.”

“Fuck you.”

“Soon.” He releases me and leaves the kitchen, and much to my dismay, leaves me in a dangerous place.

Alone with my thoughts.

nine

CASSIA

Sometimes I wish I could stop thinking, stifle every worry, memory, and inner monologue until there’s nothing left, but I’m stuck trying to find a way to be normal while my own mind tortures me. This morning, the pounding in my head amplifies every thought.

By the time the second cup of coffee kicks in, the headache starts to subside, but the self-loathing lingers, a splinter in my finger I can’t quite dig out. I drank way too much last night. I don’t remember falling asleep, but I woke up mid-morning in Mace’s room, with his side of the bed cold and a note that he had to go take care of something and he’d be back. If he thinks we’re sharing a bed because he said so, he’s wrong. Last night was a mistake that won’t happen again.

At some point, my things were delivered, and I must’ve slept hard, because my clothes are already hung up in his closet. Determined to make a point, I pick out the guest room farthest away from his and move in my toiletries andclothes, my little act of defiance, and then go in search of more liquid ambrosia.

The front door opens as I’m nursing my coffee, contemplating what to eat. I freeze on the barstool, heart slamming against my rib cage. Should I call out or should I hide? Is this the mafia coming to get me? Did Mace change his mind after last night?

A stout woman with gray hair, that gives hints of the brunette it used to hold, and round cheeks bustles into the kitchen. Reusable shopping bags full of ingredients dangle at her side. Her brown eyes meet mine and she pauses. “Who are you?”

“Uh, Cassia. You?”

Her grip on the straps of the bags tightens. “I’m the chef.”

“No name?”

“You can call me Chef,” she says, eyeing my messy hair, but she’s too polite to comment on my appearance. “Are you hungry?”

“Oh, that’s okay. I can make something.”

That earns me a glare that has me shrinking in my seat.

“No.” She points to herself. “Chef.”

I don’t know if it’s clear, but I think she’s the chef.

“Right . . . um, sure then. I haven’t had breakfast.”

With aharrumph, she nods and places the bags on the counter. “I’ll bring it to you.”

That’s a dismissal if I ever heard one. With a soft sigh, I grab my mug and slip off the barstool, padding through my new house. There are a few boxes of my things by the front door. I peek into one, curious to see what the movers grabbed. Sorrow suddenly grips my chest. Carefully reaching inside, I grab my favorite picture of my parents,one taken before I was even born, and smooth my fingers over the rough wooden frame.

What would they say if they could see me now?

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