Page 14 of Caught By the Kingpin
The wooden floor is shiny and as I round the corner to my reading nook, I almost lose my footing, sliding to the side. Only Marco’s arm as he reaches out saves me from crashing into the bookshelf, but I manage to evade being grasped, and then—
The window is closed.
The two halves of my heart squeeze together.
I lunge for it anyway, across the big window seat, expecting to feel Marco’s big body smash into me as I yank the handle and fall onto the cushions. It doesn’t budge. Locked.
Of course it is.
Marco doesn’t land on top of me as I expect, and my heart stutters. He doesn’t need to.
I’m caught.
I turn slowly, creeping onto my knees and stare at his bare chest. He’s standing at the edge of the window seat. Suddenly I could throw up, I’m so sick with regret. I’ll deserve this punishment. I’ll take it bravely, I promise myself.
I shouldn’t have run. Stupid.
“Look at me.” His voice is implacable. This isn’t a request.
Miserably, I raise my eyes at a snail’s pace. What revenge will he take? I can’t cope with any more pain. I curl into myself even as I’m compelled to look at his face. An angry mob boss is a terrifying creature.
I hesitate at his neck. I don’t want to find anger where there used to be affection.
But when I meet his gaze, in his face isn’t fury or disappointment. Just understanding and patience. Possessiveness and… love?
All my fears melt away like ice in a hot drink.
“Say no, cara,” he states. “Say no, clear and loud, if you don’t want to bemine.”
I open my mouth but sound doesn’t come out. I even form the word, but my tongue sticks to the top of my mouth.
He won, fair and square. He promised not to harm me. He gave reasonable demands—for a mafioso.
I accepted the risk when I ran, so although he’s telling me I could refuse, I don’t. I swallow, and his gaze flicks down to my neck.
He nods, taking my silence for acceptance, which it honestly is, and sinks down onto the cushions of the window seat.
“So beautiful. I’m going to spoil you,” he murmurs as he pulls me into his lap and leans back into the cushions. Too confused to struggle, I let myself rest on him and he hums with contentment. While I’m still breathing heavily, my chest tight, he’s utterly calm.
That wasn’t even a competition. He could have snatched me up at any point, I realise, but he let me come down to see for myself that he’d already thought to bar my exit.
“Why did you run from me?” His hands are clamps on my side and back and when I peek up his stare is uncompromising but somehow kind.
Why did I run? Because of my whole life. This isn’t one or two sentences, but I suppose it boils down to this. “I was scared. Why did you chase me?”
“You’d have hurt your feet on the gravel. Why were you scared?”
Because I didn’t plan for this to happen, and I don’t know what to make of this connection between us. But I don’t think he’ll accept that, because that wasn’t the cause of the fear. Not really. And the relentlessness of his hold and the quiet patience as he waits informs me he’s not going to be satisfied until I’ve confessed all.
So I do. It pours out of me.
All that has happened. My mother. My father. The things I’ve seen. Why I want to go to Scotland. He listens and strokes my back, with a thunderous rumble when I tell him something particularly unpleasant. He demands that I show him each scar, and I try to remember which one is which. He strokes his palm over the old hurts. It shouldn’t do anything, but it does, wiping away the residual, lingering pain. Those stories are mostly associated with the escape plans that didn’t work, and his eyes are glacial. But when I tell him about the one that nearly did, oh, that’s different. There’s a gleam in his summer-sky eyes then, and when I press my cheek to his stubbled one, I can feel his smile.
He nods and chuckles and murmurs, “I knew it. So clever,” as I explain how I stole from my father and was going to get away. He wants to know every detail, and I swear it sounds like he’s proud of me. The low purr of approval from his chest relaxes me more than any tea, cake, or novel I’ve experienced.
I find myself soaking up his warm strength and breathing in his scent. Not the ocean, exactly. It’s been a long day. Night. Whatever.
He smells like sweat on a warm summer breeze, fresh air and musk and… something male. When I slump down, his chest is warm and solid, even as his chest hair tickles my nose and is the tiniest bit abrasive.
