Page 16 of Owned

But not really. Because, for all her protests, she’s not kicking me out.

When she reemerges, dressed in leggings and an oversized sweater, I take my time looking her over.

She narrows her eyes. “If you make one comment about my outfit—”

I smile. “I like it.”

She scoffs, grabbing her purse. “Come on, then, stalker.”

I let her walk ahead, but the second we step outside, I reach out, grab her hand, and lace our fingers together. She freezes, but I pretend not to notice. “Where to first?”

She exhales, defeated. “I need to get fruits.”

I nod, like this is a very serious task. “Let’s go, then.”

* * *

MARYAM

I cannot believe this is my life. Riku Watanabe—brooding, dangerous, over-the-top alpha male — is currently pushing a shopping cart through my local grocery store. Like it’s perfectly normal. Like he does this all the time. Like he’s not a literal Yakuza boss.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “You know you don’t have to do all this, right?”

His brow lifts. “Why?”

“Because,” is all I got…

He cocks an eyebrow. I stare at him. He stares back. And that’s when I know. I’m not getting rid of this man.

I purposefully put my hair up in a messy bun. I’m wearing plainblack yoga pants, my old college hoodie, no makeup. And the man is still looking at me like he wants to pull me into a corner and have his wicked way with me…

* * *

RIKU

Maryam is grumbling under her breath, throwing things into the cart like she’s punishing them. I just watch, amused. She’s trying so hard to pretend she doesn’t like this. Me here with her. Having me in her space.

She glances at me, catches me watching her, and scowls. “Stop smiling.”

My grin widens.

* * *

MARYAM

The moment we step back into my apartment, my phone rings. I glance at the screen. Mom. Shit. I hesitate. Too long. And, of course, Riku notices.

I turn away, answering quickly. “Hi, Mama!”

Her voice is cheerful, as always. “You’re still coming to dinner tonight, baby?”

I grimace. Riku is too damn close, definitely in hearing distance.

I clear my throat. “Uh—”

“Don’t you ‘uh’ me, Maryam,” my mom replies. “Six o’clock, baby. Don’t even think about backing out. We miss you.”

I close my eyes, praying for patience.

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