Page 24 of Brutal Vows

I clamp my teeth together and turn my head to the side. It’s childish, but it’s the only thing I have control over.

“Are you pouting,gattina?”

I can’t tell if he’s angry or amused from his tone, but I refuse to look at him. My damp clothes cling to my flesh and steal my warmth, leaving the heat of his hands on my thighs a stark contrast.

When he slips them higher, I press my knees together, trapping his knuckles half an inch away from my sex, and curse the air conditioning as shivers wrack up and down my spine.

“You are, aren’t you?Mia gattinais pouting because she can’t fight back the way she wants.”

Goosebumps pepper my skin from his low, intimate tone. Even though I know he’s mocking me, my nipples pebble and my clit pulses, and when he leans his chest against my knees and flexes his digits around my thighs, I swing my furious glare to his face and break my short-lived silence.

“No, I’m staging a protest. You said you won’t believe me anyway, so why should I say anything at all?”

“Be careful,gattina, or I might take your wide eyes and pouty lips as an invitation because, fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he murmurs.

I can’t tell if he’s serious or not, so I rattle my cuffs and sneer.

“That isnota compliment since you thought I was my stepsister until a few minutes ago.”

He chuckles, pulls one hand off my leg to cup my face, and rubs his fingers closer to my pussy.

“Are you upset I was thinking about another woman while I was touching you?” He caresses my cheek with his thumb, and I war between biting and nuzzling him. “Because I can give youallmy attention tonight, if that’s what you want.”

When the meaning of his words sinks in through the haze of lust pulsing through me, I shake my head, dislodging his hand, and curl my lip in disgust.

“No. I don’t want that. At all. Get your hands off me,” I demand.

He stands and leaves so abruptly I stare after him in disbelief for a few moments before slumping in exhaustion and relief. Fighting both his mental attack and the war within me proves too much of a strain. I hate how my nerves spark to life every time he touches me, but I want more. I crave him.

Without the blanket, the room sucks away the last of my body heat and my teeth chatter as I shiver so hard the chair vibrates and my chains rattle.

He returns a few minutes later with a mug in one hand and a bowl in the other. Steam wafts up from both containers. My mouth waters as the smell of coffee and chicken noodle soup fills my nostrils.

After setting the tableware on top of the dresser on the far side of the room, he stalks to the bedside table, puts the lamp on the floor, and lifts the bedside table with ease. I swallow and prepare for more mental anguish as he places the table beside me, retrieves the coffee and soup from across the room, and sets the steaming crockery just out of reach of my bound hands.

He looms over me as he lifts the mug to his lips and blows over the top, dispersing the steam. My stomach rumbles. I look away in mortification and take a deep breath.

I jerk in surprise when he wraps an arm around my shoulders and holds the mug in front of my face. His breathghosts over my temple. A thrill races down my spine from his touch and his nearness fills me with yearning and apprehension.

“Drink. I can’t havemia gattinalosing her claws in the middle of a fight, can I?”

I flick an angry glance at his face, but he’s too handsome and lethal up close, so I focus my gaze on the mug. Deciding not to argue and waste an opportunity for caffeine, I lean forward.

He presses the rim to my lips and tilts the mug enough so I can slurp the hot liquid up at my pace. I cringe as the first sip burns all the way down my throat, but I take another swallow when the heat spreads out from my stomach to warm my insides.

Unexpected tears drip down my cheeks. I choke on the next sip as emotions close my throat, but when he pulls the mug away, I force myself to swallow the coffee in my mouth.

No one has ever taken care of me like this. I’ve craved this level of devotion my entire life. It’s ironic and bittersweet that this brutal mafia man is the one to give me what I want most.

I blink in surprise and stare at his lips pressed against the rim of the mug, right over where mine were a second ago, as he takes a sip. With a grunt, he places the coffee on the table and wipes my tears away with his fingers.

“Did you burn your tongue?” he asks.

I shake my head and try to lean away from him, but he tightens his arm around my shoulders and traces my features with his fingertips.

“I’m sorry,gattina, I should have cooled it down more before I offered it to you,” he says.

Suspicion roars through me. Hardened criminals like him don’t apologize.

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