Page 36 of Twisted Devotion

She shrugs, glancing away. “I don’t know. I thought you’d pick something cold and predictable. Like a rose.”

“Roses are overrated,” I say flatly, my tone almost dismissive.

Her laugh is soft, but it lights her up in a way I haven’t seen before It’s genuine, and it tugs something in me. My eyes drift to her lips as they curve upward, full and impossibly tempting.

I can’t help but wonder how they’d feel on mine. Or what it would be like if they it wrapped around my?—

I shift in my seat, forcing the thought away as heat floods through me. Adjusting my pants discreetly, I reach for my wine glass to distract myself.

The conversation eases into something softer as the meal goes on, and how natural it feels surprises me. She’s opening up in small, careful increments, and I find myself telling her things I haven’t spoken about in years. With her, it doesn’t feel strange—it feels… right.

She asks me about my family, and I tell her about my mother. She used to grow herbs in a small garden behind our house, and her hands would always smell like rosemary and thyme. I don’t mention my father—some things are better left buried.

“What about you?” I ask, shifting the focus to her. “Do you like to garden?”

She shakes her head, a small self-deprecating smile playing on her lips. “I tried once. Everything died.”

A chuckle escapes me before I can stop it. It surprises both of us. “That doesn’t shock me.”

Her eyes narrow, playful but sharp. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You don’t seem like the patient type,” I tease, letting the corner of my mouth curve upward.

She smirks, stabbing a piece of bruschetta with her fork like it’s offended her. “You’re not wrong.”

The main course arrives, and as the waiter sets the plates down, I catch her sneaking glances at my food.

“You didn’t order the crab,” she says, her tone almost accusatory.

“I don’t eat crab,” I reply simply.

“Why not?”

I set my fork down, looking at her with all the seriousness I can muster. “I don’t trust anything that walks sideways.”

She stares at me like she’s trying to figure out if I’m kidding. When she realizes I’m dead serious, she bursts out laughing. It’s loud, unrestrained, and completely unguarded. Heads turn from the nearby tables, but she doesn’t seem to care, and neither do I.

Her hand flies to her mouth as if trying to stifle the sound, but it spills out, rich and contagious. “That’s—oh my God—that’s ridiculous,” she says between breaths, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye.

I watch her, and though I’ve never thought of my distrust for crabs as anything remotely humorous, her laughter makes me reconsider. What’s funny about not liking something that scuttles sideways? To me, it seems perfectly reasonable.

But my wife keeps laughing. The sound of it, the way her shoulders shake with each uncontrollable chuckle, the way she tries to compose herself but can’t—it’s… cute.

For a fleeting moment, I forget where we are, the people watching, the roles we’re supposed to play. It’s just her, that sound, and me. The tension in my chest eases, and I feel something… lighter.

And then she catches me looking at her, and that rare moment shatters like glass.

I take another sip of wine, covering the smile that wants to break free. Damn it.

I should ask her something else to keep the conversation going, but the sudden arrival of two men from the Caldarone family steals my attention. They step through the entrance, their presence almost like a dark shadow creeping into the room. A few heads turn toward them, and I practically hear the collective thought:What are they doing here?

Only family and allies should be at the dinner tonight. Their presence is a statement—a challenge.

They glance in my direction, their eyes lingering just a beat too long. It’s deliberate. They want me to see them. To know they’re here.

I feel my jaw tighten, the muscles in my neck stiffen. I bite the inside of my lip to keep from reacting. My pulse spikes. The audacity. How dare they step into my space like this, so blatantly defiant? The weight of their challenge presses down on me. Someone is going to pay for this. There will be blood. Or worse.

I don’t give a fuck. There will be consequences.

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