Page 39 of Where Dark Hearts Devour
He doesn’t owe me an explanation, but this boldness that’s come out of nowhere demands one anyway.
A corner of his mouth ticks up, but he wipes it away with a knuckle. “To keep an eye on you.”
A chill coasts over my shoulders. I raise a brow, impressed he doesn’t feel the need to sugarcoat it, and rest a hand casually on my hip. “Why?”
“Because my brother has had to go away on business, and I don’t trust you’re not going to get blind drunk again and embarrass our family.”
I don’t tell him I’m as sober as a judge. I shouldn’t have to explain myself.
“Excellent. My own personal bodyguard. I always wanted one of those.” In a move so uncharacteristic I hardly recognize myself, I lean past him to rest my forearms on the bar. “Do you offer driving services too?” I glance over my shoulder. “And fast-food delivery? Because I do love a thick, juicy burger after dancing all night.”
I can sense the irritation rolling off him, and it lights me up like nothing I’ve ever known.
“Don’t push it, Castellano.” Even with the thudding bass making the room vibrate, I don’t miss the threatening tone in his voice.
I turn my head another fraction. “Don’t push what? You’re the one followingme. I’m just here with my friend, having a nice time. Besides, you shouldn’t care what I’m up to. I’m not married yet.”
“You’re engaged to be.” His voice is so low I can hardly hear it over the music.
I give up waiting for a bartender and spin around so I’m facing him. “So? That doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy myself.”
My breath escapes when I see the look in his eyes. His gaze is aggressive as he roams it over me. “This dress ...” he hisses. “It’sinappropriate.”
I’m surprised and slightly offended. Mostly, I’m sated. My dress is not inappropriate, but he’s noticed it, and that makes my pulse dance.
I cross my arms, his observation emboldening me even more. “Says who?”
His glare feels like a shock. I’ve called his bluff, and he doesn’t like it. He knows it’s not his place to say whether I’m dressed inappropriately or not.
“You need to stop telling me what to do. I’m not yourprincipessa.”
His eyes remain indifferent, but his jaw works from side to side.
I continue, emboldened. “I’m the daughter of a hardworking businessman, and I’ve earned the right to stand here in this club with whomever I want, wearing whatever I want.”
Cristiano swallows, drawing my gaze to his throat, and without thinking, I stroke my tongue over my dry lips.
A tight grip around my wrist snaps my gaze back to his. He pulls me toward him—so close his lips warm the tip of my nose. He speaks slowly and quietly, yet the force of his words makes them unmistakable.
“I don’t give afuckwho your father is. I don’t give afuckwhat you have and haven’t earned the right to do. I don’t give afuckwho you’re about to marry. I don’t want you getting drunk out of your mind, because I could really do without blowing another man’s hands off.” He pulls back and stares into my eyes. “If that’s all right with you.”
I yank my wrist from his grip but don’t move. I can’t when I’m panting so hard I’m lightheaded. Thank God he can’t hear howbotheredhis words have made me over the volume of the music.
I’m hot and restless.
I’m alsofuming.
I spin around and strut toward Sandrine, grabbing her hand as I pass.
“Trouble in paradise?” she says, giggling.
I pull her impatiently to the restroom and walk straight up to the mirrors. With the sound dulled, I turn to face her.
“Do you have any scissors in your purse?”
“Yeah.” She cocks her head to one side. “And I have a chainsaw, a length of rope, and some gag tape, if you need those too.”
“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit,” I remind her.
