Page 19 of Corrupting Lily

I nearly jump in fright as the man who haunted my dreams stands in the doorway, his angry glare fixed on the man kneeling before me. Silver-grey eyes flick up to meet mine, narrowing as they shift from Matteo to Dante to Nero, before finally settling back on me.

“Get your fucking hands off her.” Damn. His voice cuts like a knife, and Dylan, who has been oblivious until now, stiffens at the sound.

“Now,” Dominico repeats, his voice lethal.

The carefree demeanor of the man who is slowly putting my foot on the ground has vanished, and instead, all the color has drained from his face. He appears frightened. I would be, too.

“I told them this wasn’t a good idea,” Matteo mumbles, his eyes on the two men at the bar as he shakes his head.

“Si-Sir, Mr. Sante, I’m Dylan. Doctor Andrews sent me.” Dominico tuts, taking a few steps towards us. He approaches like I imagine a leopard would his prey. Slowly, with no sudden movements, though his intention is clear. He wants to kill.

“He should have known better. Leave. Now. Before you exhaust my mercy and instead face the consequences of my malice.”

Dylan doesn't need to be told twice. I have never seen a man move so quickly. He has packed all his things in seconds and is practically sprinting out the door.

“What did I tell you?” Dante extends his hand as Nero grumbles, retrieving a rolled-up wad of cash from his pocket and dropping it into the waiting palm. He finishes his drink, stands up, and walks towards the door when Dominico orders everyone out.

Shit. This isn’t good. Dominico looks furious.

He strolls toward the bar and pours a glass of scotch or whiskey from the decanter, downing it in one swift motion. Efficient, concise, and deadly.

He turns around, his eyes locked with mine as he approaches. Now that he is closer, I can see a gash just above his eye, through his eyebrow, and his knuckles are busted up. He has been fighting. Was this normal? Who did he fight?

“What are you doing,il mio fiorellino?” I blink a few times, still notfully understanding.

“Physio?” It sounds more like a question as I shift in my seat, the temperature in the room rising the closer he gets to me.

“Do you enjoy his hands on you?” What a strange question.

“Um, no, actually,” I reply honestly, a flicker of surprise crossing his features.

“Good girl.” A shiver runs down my body, and I blink several times, trying to understand how two words can cause such a visceral reaction. And such a physical one, as my panties immediately moisten and my core clenches.

He stands before me, forcing me to tilt my head back to see his face. He leans forward, and I shift back as he inches closer, his hands on the armrest caging me in. His face is so near that I can smell the liquor on his breath, and the familiar scent of cigars and spice overwhelms me.

“I don’t want to see another man's hands on you, Lily. Ever again. This is the only warning I will give. The next time, they die. Do you understand?” I stare at him, trying to comprehend his words. What does it matter to him, anyway, who touches me?

“Say you understand,” Dominico prompts, his eyes darting around my face and dropping to my lips as I moisten them.

“I understand. But it's not that I wanted him to. I don’t like anyone touching me except—” I clamp my mouth shut as my eyes widen with the realization that I almost revealed my secret.

“Except?” he prompts, raising his hand and trailing a finger down my cheek. My eyes drift close and then fly open as the unconscious action becomes conscious.

“Except?” Fuck, he isn’t going to let this go.

His hand holds my chin as he glides the pad of his thumb along my bottom lip.

“Except you,” I finally whisper, earning me a wicked grin.

“Do you like me touching you,il mio fiorellino?” The answer to his question is clear as a shudder runs through my body.

His use of the term of endearment,mylittle flower, and the smirk on his face almost have me combusting into flames. I have never had a pet name before. A term of derision, indeed, but never anything as sweet as this. Did I want to be that? His? Yes. Hard, dangerous, yes.

I realize I am leaning in just as he rights himself, standing tall before me.

“Come. There is something we must do first, and then we will go out.” Once again, I am swept up into strong arms.

“I can walk. My leg is much better.” The words contradict what my body is saying as I snuggle into him. Damn, this is beginning to feel more and more like home. The small space between his arms and chest feels so big, so powerful, and so safe that it puts the one-by-one-meter box I was kept in as a kid to shame. In there, I felt trapped. I feel safer in this smaller space, where I am now cradled, than I ever have. Freer than I have ever been.

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