Page 39 of Raziel
“Perfect.” She beamed, handing me back the phone like she’d just won a prize. “See?” Her smile was all teeth. “Painless.”
I gave her a nod—short, dismissive—and walked past her. She didn’t need words to know I’d seen through her.
She wasn’t trying to be social.
She was trying to keep tabs on me. Wanted to know who I dealt with, who I trusted. Figure out who mattered to me, so she could wedge herself into the parts of my life I kept from her. Who I let close.
For such a pretty girl, she could be calculating. But it wouldn’t help her. I wasn’t the kind of man who could be manipulated.
But maybe I deserved her trying to.
For letting this engagement get this far.
For going through the motions like any of it meant something to me.
Lately, I’d been asking myself why I was doing any of it.
Guilt? Habit? Or just loyalty to the ghost of the man I became when she died?
I hated that I was here.
I told myself it was for family. Legacy. Duty. For my mother.
But maybe I was just a coward.
By the time I reached the stairs, my anger had curdled into something emptier. I was tired. Because my mind was still across town, in that tiny beach shack. In the bed I’d just left and couldn’t go back to.
Chapter Thirteen- Maya
I rubbed the sleep from my eyes as I stepped into the kitchen, face freshly washed, teeth brushed. The decadent scent of butter, garlic, and something sinfully rich with cream made my stomach growl—or maybe it was the sight waiting for me.
Sunlight spilled through the windows, gilding Raziel’s tattooed back as he stood at the stove, muscles shifting under his skin while he stirred the cast iron. I let my breath out slow, swaying my hips just a little, doing a silent victory dance because Raziel motherfucking Mercier was in my kitchen.
Half-dressed. Cooking for me.
He looked… domesticated.
But dangerous. His pistol sat on the counter like a reminder.
He’d shown up last night, a day after strong-arming Priest into lying to his fiancée. Miyori had mentioned inviting them to some little shindig—of course, I’d invited myself. I wanted to see how stiff my competition was.
“I imagine this is how Jane felt in her fifth year of marriage to Calogero,” I said, stretching like a cat.
He glanced over his shoulder, one dark brow lifting. “What?”
A Bronx Tale. I drifted closer, bare feet silent on the tiles. “My sister and I used to pretend there was a sequel where theygot married. Figured C ended up an underboss. Jane stayed sweet, but she was the one he really answered to.”
Raziel turned just enough to pin me with that unreadable gaze. Not quite amused. Not quite annoyed. Just hot. “So you like me because your favorite movie’s about mobsters?”
I smirked, then closed the distance between us, sliding my arms around his waist from behind. My fingers traced the hard ridges of his abdomen before I pressed my lips to the space between his shoulder blades, breathing him in—spice, salt, something darkly addictive. I really did have an addictive personality. Everything about him made me crave.
The way he stood, like the room belonged to him.
The quiet weight of his presence.
The danger behind his eyes.
He didn’t even have to touch me to make my skin ache.
