Page 53 of Twisted (Never After)
The sound of an elevator pings in the distance, click-clacks of high heels on hard floors reverberating off the walls. My eyes fly to the end of the hall just as Yasmin walks around the corner, Razul’s large, bulky frame at her back.
She has a long black peacoat covering her body, the cinched belt making her curves look exquisite. Large black sunglasses cover her eyes entirely, shielding her gaze from my view. Her lips are a fire- engine red that match her manicured nails perfectly, and my eyes trail down her toned legs until they hit her black heels.
Her lips twist into a pathetic attempt of a smile as she reaches me, her head turning to nod at Ciara.
“Gattina,” I say. “You look edible.”
She doesn’t give me a response, too busy untying the belt at her waist and slipping the coat off, handing it to Razul, who folds it over his arm and stands stoically behind her.
My cock jerks at the sight of her in a skintight, bloodred dress, visions of what she looked like naked and splayed out in the throes of pleasure assaulting my mind.
“Hello,husband,” she purrs.
My brows shoot to my hairline, but I recover quickly, smirking as I straighten from where I was leaned against the wall. “Not your husband yet, I’m afraid.”
She looks around, pursing her lips, those black shades still blocking her gaze from my view, which annoys me. It’s easier to tell what’s going through her head when I can see her eyes.
“Is that not why we’re here?” she asks.
I frown, making sure to put on a show for anyone who might care to watch. “I wanted to surprise you.”
Her lips twitch. “Having one of your goons come to collect me and bring me to the courthouse isn’t exactly stealthy, patatino.”
A chuckle bursts out of me at the Italian term of endearment.
I’m sure she learned the word to irritate me, but if anything, it does the opposite, bringing a sense of nostalgia back, one that I haven’t felt in years. My nonna— the one who never left Italy— used to call me patatino, her little potato, whenever I’d speak to her on the phone.
She was the only good thing in my life as a child, and even though I never got to meet her in person, I was devastated when she passed away. I begged to go to her funeral, but it was impossible. My father wouldn’t hear of it, and even if he would have, we didn’t have the money.
It was one of the first times in my life that I promised myself I would never grow up to be financially insecure.
Reaching out toward Yasmin, I link our fingers together, ignoring the way the touch sends an unwelcome tremor through me, and I bring up her hand, pressing a kiss to the back. “Learning Italian just for me? I’m touched.”
Anthony’s office door flies open, and he storms out, his beady blue eyes bouncing from me to Yasmin and then to the two people with us. He nods. “Ready.”
“Excellent,” I say, pulling Yasmin into his office.
“Where is my father?” she whispers, finally taking off her sunglasses and looking around.
“At home, I’d presume. This isn’t about him.”
Just like last time, her nails dig into the back of my hand until they cut through flesh.
I smother a hiss at the pain and tighten my grip until her skin blanches, bending down to ghost my lips across the shell of her ear. “Careful,” I whisper before dropping her hand completely. Moving toward Anthony’s desk, I look down at the shiny, new marriage license, picking up a pen and holding it out toward her. “You’re more than welcome to plan the wedding of your dreams and have him walk you down the aisle. But this is aboutus.”
She strides toward me, her eyes flicking between the pen and the marriage certificate on the desk’s top. She moves and I wrap my free hand around her wrist, locking her in place.
“In time, you’ll forgive me. I just couldn’t wait another minute to tie us together. Until death do us part.”
Swallowing, she jerks her chin, taking the pen from my hold and twisting toward the license.
My heart ratchets higher, slamming against my ribs as she leans over, her back arching slightly as she prepares to become mine.
I wasn’t sure what I expected when she got here, but it wasn’t this. I’m pleased things are going so smoothly, but I’m not naive, and her being soagreeablemakes my hackles rise. Still, the scratch of ink on paper has never sounded so sweet. One step closer to Sultans becoming mine, just as much as Yasmin. She signs her name and then looks up at me, a dark look coasting across her features.
Her jaw tightens and I beam at her.
“What now?” she asks.
