Page 2 of Mafia Shade's Reluctant Bride
The ice in my glass shifted as I swirled my drink lazily. He was right, but I wasn’t about to admit it. “Doesn’t change the fact that you’re staring.”
“Neither does the fact that you haven’t looked away.”
My lips parted slightly, a sharp retort dancing on my tongue, but before I could speak, his fingers brushed against my wrist.
It was barely a touch, a ghost of contact. Yet, it sent a jolt through me like he had just traced fire along my skin.
“Do you always stare at strangers across the room?” His voice was softer now and lower as if the words were meant only for me.
I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. “Only when they stare first.”
His smirk deepened. “Bold. I like you,”
“I have been told.”
He tilted his head, considering. “That wasn’t your voice earlier.”
I blinked. “What?”
“When you first walked in. You spoke to the bartender. Your voice was different.” He had been watching me from the moment I walked in about an hour ago,
I felt my stomach tighten. “Maybe I just changed my mind on how I want to sound tonight.”
A pause. His head dipped slightly, his breath just barely fanning against my skin as he lowered his voice even more.
“Maybe I did too.”
I exhaled sharply. Damn him. Damn this.
I had never believed in love at first sight. Or first words. Or first touch. But whatever this was—it had taken me prisoner. The worst part was I didn’t want to be free.
His fingers brushed my wrist again, barely skimming the sensitive skin before pulling away as if testing how much I could take.
I already knew the answer.
Too much. Not enough.
His thumb traced the rim of his glass, watching me like he was giving me a chance to walk away and like he already knew I wouldn’t.
“You still haven’t told me your name,” he murmured with a voice that was a smooth, rolling drawl that curled around my senses like smoke.
I hesitated. The whole point of a masked party was anonymity. No names. No identities. Just the night. But there was something about the way he carried himself and the way I felt the urge to surrender myself to this 6-foot-tall man whose broad shoulders looked like they could lift me effortlessly and whose eyes pierced through his mask and stripped my soul, leaving me bare at its wake.
“Rose.”
It wasn’t a lie. Not entirely. My mother used to call me Rose because she thought the name Maria didn’t reflect my true essence.
His lips curved as if he knew and saw straight through the mask I wore—not the one covering my face, but the one I had perfected over the years.
“Nice to meet you, Rose.”
He let my name roll off his tongue like a promise. I should have been scared. I should have cared that I knew nothing about him.
Instead, I stepped closer.
Not enough to touch, but enough that I could feel the warmth radiating off him and enough that my next breath tasted like whiskey and temptation.
The music shifted, slow and sultry, wrapping around us like a sinful desire.
