Page 153 of Wicked Savage

I laugh and start to move toward the empty spot across the eight-seat table, but his gaze sharpens, his expression hardening.

“Dinara.” The single word is a warning.

With a smirk, I slowly drag the chair back, keeping my eyes locked on his, and finally settle into it. He shakes his head, his gaze intense, before rising to his feet. In one swift motion, he grabs me around the waist, and before I can react, he tosses me over his shoulder with a grin.

The cool air hits my ass as I fight him to let me down.

He spanks me hard across my behind. “You keep trying to get a rise out of me, baby, and it’s only making me want you more.”

He lowers onto his seat and takes me with him, one arm around my back, my legs dangling over his. That heated gaze drops to my thighs, a growl emanating from his chest. When his fingers roll up my knee, I quiver, releasing a pant. I can’t even control myself when he touches me. How am I supposed to resist him?

“I have something for you,” he says, his voice low and gravelly, each word carrying a husky rhythm that tempts me to want things I shouldn’t.

Sleeping with him at the club while pretending to hate him was one thing, but here, in his home, with the way he’s holding me so protectively, it’s different. And I don’t want things to be different.

My gaze drops to where his free hand slips into his pocket, and all the air evaporates from my lungs as he pulls out a small jewelry box. A tightness forms in my chest, taking me back to when he bought me the tennis bracelet. The one I stopped wearing as soon as I came home.

I didn’t want him to know how much I still missed him, how much that bracelet meant to me. But the truth is, when I wore it all that time in Italy, it forced me to remember all the good times we had, and that only fueled the anger I felt over how he ended things.

I was a fool to beg him to stay that night when he told me he’d never love me. I won’t be that girl again.

“What is this?” I force myself to come across indifferent.

He pulls me off his lap, and before I can even process what’s happening, he drops to one knee, opening the box in front of me.

My heart stops.

“Dinara Marinova, will you marry me?” His eyes gleam, and a knot tightens in my stomach.

I know it’s not real. We’re both being forced into this, but still, in the depths of my broken heart, I wish it was.

I stare at the round solitaire diamond glistening in the light, nestled against a silver band. My impulse is to beg him to put it on my finger, to make it feel real, but it’s also the last thing I want.

“I don’t think I have a choice in the matter, now, do I?” I mutter.

“But what if you did?” The way he says it, so full of emotion, tightens my throat.

“We don’t live in a make-believe world, Cillian. This is what has to happen. What I want never mattered.”

He grinds his jaw, the tension between us palpable. “You’re right. It doesn’t matter, because youwillbe my wife, whether you like it or not.”

He slips the ring on my finger, and everything inside me wants to cry. This should be a happy moment, but all I feel is a hollow ache.

Pulling me back onto his lap, he grips my thigh, while the ring on my finger is a reminder that I’m his now.

“What would you like to eat?” he asks, his gaze locked on mine, softening as the tension ebbs away.

His fingers lazily roll over the top of my left hand, the warmth of his touch spreading through my limbs like a comforting blanket. And I hate that it feels like that, like he’s everything I need.

“Pancakes,” I manage.

He fills his plate, never breaking eye contact as he cuts a piece and brings it to my lips. When I feel him harden beneath me, heat stirs between my thighs.

“Open your mouth, Dinara.” His voice is smooth, yet rough—a deadly concoction of sin and seduction.

I part my lips, and he feeds me, watching me intently.

And the way he does, like he enjoys feeding me, has a shiver running down my spine.

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