Page 21 of Making the King

Once we’re inside the cozy house, Rocco tells me to place the bags on the coffee table in front of the couch. I discreetly hide one behind my back, the one with the ice cream and cookies.

After getting some plates from the small kitchen, Rocco sits down on the couch and pats the space next to him.

“Come sit,” he says.

Shaking my head, I take a step back. I look at the back door, wondering if I can get away with sprinting out there.

Rocco sighs. “Look, I get that I don’t know half the shit you’ve been through. But it’s getting real fucking hard not to take your attitude personally.”

Looking at him, I furrow my brows in confusion. I don’t get why he’s taking it personally. He hasn’t done anything wrong, I have. I’m the one who’s meant to cater to him, submit to him. That’s what my mom taught me, and Mindy said that’s what he wants.

“Can we just fucking eat in peace and… I don’t know… talk or some shit?” When I don’t move, he adds, “You know your ice cream is going to melt, right?”

My eyes widen as I realize he knows I’m hiding it from him. “You can’t have it,” I warn, lifting my chin.

I know I’m behaving like a kid, but it’s so hard to navigate my new reality. I never wanted to be here, let alone to be married. But I’ve never had a choice in these matters. No matter how brutal prison was, it strengthened me. In there, I didn’t let anyone walk all over me and take my food, and I won’t allow it on the outside either.

Even as a kid, I never allowed anyone to touch what I perceived as mine. I think that’s the real reason I got so pissed with Mindy at the club. Rocco’s my husband, and that should mean something. Even if it’s not a love marriage, I’m not okay with him getting his rocks off while I was locked up.

“I’m not interested in your fucking ice cream,” Rocco laughs. “All I want is to share a meal and have just two minutes where you don’t look like you’re contemplating killing me.”

Tilting my head to the side, I look at him from beneath my lashes. He sounds sincere, and he doesn’t look threatening. Maybe it’s okay to let my guard down while we eat.

Moving over to the couch, I slowly sit down as far away from him as possible. I prefer to watch him closely, so I adjust my position on the couch by pulling my legs up and leaning back on the armrest. I even place the ice cream on the table with the rest of the food.

“What do you want to try first?” Rocco asks as he shoves some fries into his mouth.

I point at the burger, and when he hands it to me, I unwrap it right away. The first bite is so good I moan in pleasure. The meat is full of flavor, and the lettuce, tomato, and bun taste so much better than the prison food.

“That good?” Rocco laughs, and I nod eagerly. “Try a curly fry.”

He shakes them in front of my face, not stopping until I take one. “Oh my God!” I exclaim with my mouth full. “They’re great.”

As my gaze collides with Rocco’s, I’m surprised how dark his eyes are. I mean, yeah, they’re always dark. Yet, right now, they’re almost black. But instead of making him look menacing, he looks like a forbidden treat that I... I shake my head because it doesn’t matter how he looks.

Rocco continues to push food on me, not stopping until I’ve tried every single thing on the table and slurped the last of my shake.

“Do you want your ice cream now?” he asks, arching a brow like he’s daring me to consume more food.

“Absolutely,” I say eagerly.

Reaching for the tub, I scoop some onto the spoon that came with it. Once again, I moan. The caramel and chocolate flavors exploding on my tongue are too fucking much. This is the stuff of dreams.

“Can I try some?” he asks.

Despite the teasing lilt to his tone, I shake my head vehemently. “No.”

Rocco snorts and bends down to kick off his shoes. I know what comes next, and yep, like clockwork, his shirt is the next to go.

“Why do you always do that?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“Do what?”

Rolling my eyes, I take another bite of the heavenly ice cream. “Walk around shirtless.”

He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I’m in my home, what’s more natural than being as comfortable as possible?”

I take a moment to mull over his words. I guess it makes sense. Not everyone comes from a fucked up home where there was never enough food, or where being dressed was a luxury.

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