Page 211 of King of Pain
I set the bowl down between us, grab the tongs, and serve us each a generous helping.
Then I raise my glass.
He meets my eyes, lifts his.
“To freedom,” I say quietly.
His jaw tightens slightly, but he holds my gaze as our glasses clink.
We both take a sip, then Chance sets his glass down and digs into the salad first, giving a soft hum in appreciation. And I just… watch.
This man.
This man has risked everything for the two people he's loved most.
Ma.
And me.
Not only has he risked it all—he’s taken on all that pain. Chance Sullivan takes everyone’s pain—plus the pain he inflictson himself from his actions—and absorbs it like some kind of sin-eater. The first time we made love, when he told me to fuck all my pain into him, I know he meant it. If it was physically possible, he would take every drop of it from my body.
It’s honestly baffling how he’s able to be so loving and tender when he’s carrying all that pain in his heart. Somehow, he lords over it—like a King of Pain. Cages it in the depths of his soul and throws away the keys to the kingdom.
If it’s the last thing I do, I will make sure he gets what he needs to heal. I will make sure he never has to do it again.
He twirls a bite of pasta onto his fork and takes a mouthful. The moment it hits his tongue; his eyebrows go up and he leans back in his chair in surprise.
“Damn. This is not your regular spaghetti, is it?”
I fight the grin tugging at my lips. “Nope.”
He chews, thoughtfully. “It’s got some kick. And an almost… what is that? Charred flavor?”
I nod. “Spot on. Those are the primary flavor profiles of the dish.”
“It’s delicious, babe. What’s it called?” He takes another big bite.
I lift my wine glass to my lips, take a sip, then meet his eyes dead on.
“Assassin’s Pasta.”
Chance chokes loudly.
He starts coughing and sputtering, eyes wide as he reaches for his wine.
I pat him a few times on the back and smirk.
“Eat up.”
TRACK SIXTY•FOUR
Freeze Frame
Chance
I think this is the nineteenth time I’ve paced the living room. At least. Maybe more. I lost count somewhere around lap eleven. I’m tugging at the knot of my bow tie, running a hand through my hair, then doing it all over again.
The tux fits like a glove, tailored within an inch of its life, and yet I can’t stop squirming. I stop at the mirror and try to fix the tie again, but I don’t even know what I’m doing. My hands drop. I sigh.
