Page 23 of Cinderella and the Daddy
"Such devotion," Anna mutters sarcastically.
The jealousy in her tone is impossible to miss.
Cindy slides her hand up my back, gently massaging my neck in a possessive gesture.
No one misses it.
After dinner, we move to one of the elaborate rooms in the house that opens to an outdoor area.
“I have business to take care of,” I whisper in her ear. “Stay alert.”
She nods in understanding.
I can't take my eyes off her. This woman who was covered in grease two weeks ago is now holding her own in a room full of killers and criminals.
She's not just surviving—she's thriving.
I'm pulled into a conversation about territory disputes when I notice Cindy has attracted her own audience.
Three men circle her like sharks sensing blood in the water. She's laughing at something one of them said. After years of being invisible, she's finally being seen.
One of them, a lieutenant I don't recognize, reaches out to touch her arm. His fingers linger longer than necessary, his thumb stroking across her skin.
Something primal and violent unfurls in my chest.
I know Mark or another of my guards here tonight will intervene if Cindy is in any real danger. But I'm moving before conscious thought kicks in, cutting through the crowd with single-minded focus. My hand closes around her wrist, pulling her against my side with enough force to make my claim unmistakable.
"Gentlemen," I say, my voice deceptively casual.
The lieutenant's hand falls away immediately, but I can see the challenge in his eyes. He's young, stupid, and clearly doesn't understand the hierarchy here.
"We were just getting acquainted," he says with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
"Now, you're done."
I guide Cindy away from her admirers, my grip firm but not bruising. She stumbles slightly in her heels but doesn't protest until we're alone in a shadowed alcove.
"What the hell was that?" she hisses, yanking her wrist free. "I was handling it."
"You were enjoying it."
"So what if I was?" Fire flashes in her blue eyes. "For the first time in my life, men are actually seeing me as something other than a grease monkey or a servant. Or a fucking prisoner. Excuse me if I found that refreshing."
The hurt in her voice stops me cold. How many years has she been invisible? How many times has she been overlooked, dismissed, and treated like she didn't matter?
"They see you because you're with me," I tell her, hating how the words sound even as I say them.
"Fuck you."
I hate the way my chest constricts at the thought of other men wanting her.
"You're mine," I growl, backing her against the stone wall of the alcove.
"I'm not a fucking possession," she snaps back, but her breathing has changed. Quick, shallow pants that make her chest rise and fall beneath the silk of her dress.
"Tonight you are."
Before she can argue, before she can push me away or tell me to go to hell, I capture her mouth with mine. This kiss is nothing like the performance she gave me at dinner. This is raw, desperate, the kind of claiming that leaves marks on souls.
