Page 31 of Mafia King's Forbidden Obsession

“You and I both know it wasn’t,” he says. I don't know if it's just me, but his voice reduces to a mix of husk and rasp.

I can now feel the unmistakable heat of his stare. It courses through my body, biting like tiny sparks everywhere his gaze lands. I feel it more on my chest.

No, I feel it everywhere, especially in my core. My pussy pulses with beats of forbidden desires as I press my thighs together.

Oh, lord.

When I raise my eyes, his gaze narrows on my exposed thighs just as he grips the doorknob tightly. As I continue to stare at him, his eyes darken and pierce through my eyes with heated intensity. I suddenly can't breathe. It feels like all the air is zapped out of this room, and our breaths are the only source of air.

It does not help that his feet are moving, closing the distance between us. My breathing quickens when he reaches me. Our feet are now touching, and my heart is about to burst.

Slowly he dips his hand between our bodies. I feel the light brush of his fingers against my thighs. My senses go crazy, and I'm about to jump this man when his fingers wrap around my wrist, and he lifts it between us.

Like a veil is lifted off my face, I’m suddenly returned to my right senses, and for some reason, I quickly yank my wrist from his grip and take a few steps backward.

His lips pull back in a scowl. I can see the irritation filling his eyes. “Don’t test me,” he growls.

That’s a wrong statement because it only makes me want to test him even more.

“No,” I bite back. My voice comes out firm.

He raises a brow, confusion arching it to almost touch his hairline. I match his stare with an equally raised eyebrow, holding my wrist to my chest. If he thinks he has the audacity to come here…and …and make me feel things…and touch me…I won’t allow it.

“Your wrist,” he demands, with a threat, taking a step forward.

I take one back. “I’d like for you to leave.”

He ignores my warning and continues toward me. “Raven,” his tone is warning, but I don’t care. What does he care about my wrist anyway?

“What do you ca–” I don’t have time to finish the sentence when, in the blink of an eye, my back is pinned against the wall. There's nothing but a thread of space between us as my hands are also pinned above my head, bound by his loose grip.

I can feel his breathing on my forehead. There’s silence for the longest moment before his breathing starts to get heavy. Slowly, he unpins a wrist and lowers it to my eyes.

“Who did this to you?” he glances from my red wrists to my eyes. That’s the only thing he says, and I understand what he's asking. “And don’t think of playing games with me,” he adds in a strict, warning tone.

I contemplate it for a moment. His angry gaze is a warning, too, so I finally answer.

“T- the guard,” I clear my throat, not bothering to lie. He seems to understand.

His eyes turn even darker, and they're laced with something much more deadly. He holds my gaze and my wrist for a moment longer before he drops it and walks out without another word.

I stay still, rooted in my spot as I try to bring myself out of what just happened.

What just happened?

Whatever prior feeling I had slowly morphs into confusion as I stare at the closed door.

Suddenly, there are voices coming from outside—loud, tense. I whip my head in its direction, almost having whiplash. I scurry to the window. It is locked, so I press my face against the glass, desperate to see what is happening.

Outside, I spot five cartel members. One man in particular stands out, his bare torso bathed in cuts and splits. Streaks of blood trickle from the rips on his bald head. I squint, cupping my face in my hands for a clearer view.

The other men push the brawny man around. Their loud guffaws ring out, piercing the silence that envelops the yard. The battered man staggers in every direction, his twisted right ankle dragging in the sand.

My mind reels with questions and scenarios that would warrant such abuse on that man.

A few seconds pass before two of the assaulters kick the beaten cartel member down, finally putting an end to their tennis game. My stomach tightens when I realize from his face that he is literally crying− tears streaming down his face, his shoulders sagging in resignation.

What would make a grown man weep like this?

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