Page 51 of Wicked Sinner
Sometimes I wonder if I’d be better off just not seeing her for a few days. Sending Marco to bring her meals and letting her squirm, wondering if I’ve forgotten about her. But I can’t seem to stop myself. She’s quickly becoming an obsession—something I don’t need right now—and not for the first time, I also wonder if I’d have been better off simply never coming back to Miami at all.
My life before was difficult. Rough. Dangerous. But it was also exciting and profitable, and most importantly, it wasmine.
Now, my life feels as if it’s being pulled apart at the edges by forces out of my control. Konstantin and his demands. Tristan and his desire to take my father’s legacy for himself. The fact that Bridget is having my child. Isabella’s dogged attempts to seduce me into marriage. Bridget herself, refusing to give in and yet making me more obsessed with her than ever with each conversation that slips through my fingers and goes nowhere.
I don’t want to control her or break her. I want towinher. And I’ve never been so at a loss as to how to win a game I’ve decided I want to play.
She’s in her room, of course, curled up in the window seat with a book. I had a stack of them delivered from the local bookstore after she complained about being bored, a few from just about every genre, so she’d have plenty to choose from. She doesn't look up when I enter, though I can see the slight tension in her shoulders that tells me she's aware of my presence.
"Good morning.” I lean against the door. It’s nearly afternoon, and a part of me thinks I said it just to see if she’ll start by arguing that point with me.
I thought I’d grown out of my combative nature, but something about Bridget seems to bring it out of me.
"Is it?" she asks without looking up from her book. "I wouldn't know. Every day feels the same when you're a prisoner."
"You're not a prisoner," I say automatically, though we both know it's a lie. "You're a guest."
"Guests can leave whenever they want," she points out, finally meeting my eyes. "Can I leave?"
We've had this conversation so many times I could recite both sides from memory. But I persist anyway, hoping that eventually I'll find the right words to make her understand.
"You know why that's not possible," I reply calmly.
"Because you're a controlling bastard who thinks he owns me?"
"Because there are people in this city who would hurt you to get to me," I correct, feeling my patience start to fray. "Because our child is my heir, and would be a threat to any other heir I might have. Because you won’t leave Miami, and I don’t want to give you up. And even if we came to an agreement, men like me will always have enemies?—"
"Enemies," she repeats. "The ones you keep talking about but never actually name. Are they under the bed? In the closet? Monsters waiting to get me?"
The sarcasm in her voice makes my jaw clench. "This isn't a joke, Bridget. I'm trying to protect you."
"You're trying to control me," she counters. "There's a difference."
I step forward abruptly, frustration boiling over. I look at her, her jaw clenched and eyes sparking, and I wonder if she trulyunderstands what she’s dealing with.Whoshe’s dealing with. What kind of man she invited to fuck her that night.
"Do you have any idea what I could do to you if I wanted to? What I'm capable of?"
Finally, I have her full attention. She sets down her book and looks at me with those hazel eyes narrowed directly at me, though I don’t see a hint of fear in them.
"Are you threatening me, Caesar?"
"I'm reminding you," I say, my voice dropping to the tone that usually makes people back down. "I'm reminding you that I'm not some lovesick boy you can dismiss and argue with and dangle on a string. I'm Caesar Genovese. I've killed men for less than what you put me through every day."
She studies my face for a long moment, and then does something that stops me cold.
She laughs.
"You want to know what I think?" she says, standing up to face me. "I think you're all bark and no bite. At least when it comes to me."
"Don't test me," I warn.
"Why not?" She takes a step closer, and I swear, even from this distance, I can smell the scent of her skin and her soap. My cock twitches, my body craving hers like a drug. Every day since I fucked her—hell, sometimes twice a day—I’ve jerked off fantasizing about her scent, her taste, the feeling of her soft skin, and her tight, hot body wrapped around mine. I’ve imprinted her on my fucking brain, it feels like, and I want her so badly it hurts. "What are you going to do, Caesar? Hit me? Hurt me? We both know you won't."
She's right, and we both know it. The thought of causing her physical harm makes me sick. But I can't let her know how completely she's disarmed me.
"There are other ways to hurt someone," I say quietly.
"I'm sure there are," she agrees. "But you won't use them on me. You know why?"
