Page 23 of Hostile Bond
A squall of prickles unexpectedly raises every hair on my scalp. I pivot in my sneakers and suck in a sharp breath.
My wife.
Sinéad is in the distance, standing on the balcony of our master suite. Long loose hair moves with the breeze, raven strands mapping her pretty face. Proud shoulders are pulled back, her posture fortifying elegance and courage.
A majestic goddess observing her realm while I’m merely a mortal who worships her.
She is wearing the same skull t-shirt I’d given her on our wedding night as if it holds sentimental value. And it does. The damn skull motif was the only witness to her surrender––and mine.
My defective brain tosses away every other thought and focuses solely on the celestial vision. The way it always does when she’s near me. She’s the only thing that loops around my attention and catches it.
Knowing her milky thighs are bare behind the concrete balustrade has my dick on high alert and my pulse thumping. Airy curtains billow out around her haunting appearance from the open glass doors in the background, frolicking like the demons of her scarred past.
I nearly fall apart, a stomach-clenching grunt escaping me, because I know her gaze is hunting for me. My hyper aware reaction to her isn’t simply about divine curves, or a queenly stature. It’s the knowledge of her harrowing worry that binds my heart a thousand times and claims the pumping organ as hers.
When she’d asked for a gun, I was both turned on and apprehensive. Asking for it signals to me she is worried about safety.
Hers and mine.
The reality is my wife should have whatever she needs to feel settled. And if that’s an arsenal of weapons, I’d happily buy her a hand-crafted gun cabinet to store them all in.
Sinéad had gifted me with her trust and the key to her protected heart. That was the offering she gave the monster who’d forced her to recite vows. To the playboy who fell head over heels in love before she had even considered me a worthy husband. The awareness of it twists my lungs so I can’t breathe.
I’ve become the man I never thought possible––completely taken. A dumbstruck fucker who wants his wife so much that he burns for her and his unruly dick throbs beneath his shorts. I’m caught up in her whirlwind and unbelievably twisted around her little finger.
This is it.
All is fair in love and war.
And I’d scorch the earth to exact revenge.
I unpocket my phone and check the unread messages, then type out a quick instruction to Letterman before finding her again. In my peripheral vision, I’m aware of movement. Reluctantly dragging my fascination away from her, I find Tomás and Matheus both standing and waiting for our guests to do the same.
“Thanks for the intel.” Tomás looms over the two men, his demeanor formal. “My brothers and I will consider a way forward this evening. I guarantee Acer won’t be a problem anymore.”
“Good.” Sapori glances over at me. “The next time we see each other, André, you’d better have my grandchild in your arms.”
His high-handed expectation fuels my need to ensure this man will never be a problem again. That he’d never come after my wife, or my kids in the future.
Frankie Sapori is the eternal enemy.
“There’s a storm coming.” I announce. “Best set off before it arrives. You wouldn’t want something bad to happen to you in open water.”
His eyes narrow. “The baptism will be in Sicily. Let’s pray for a boy.”
Killing this man is my number one priority. “I’d enjoy a trip to Sicily.” To take control of your throne. “Safe travels, Sapori.”
Tomás waits until the duo returns to the path before he looks over his shoulder, his lips twitching into a proud smile. He understands how difficult it was for me to humor the bastard without spraying blood. I could pretend I’m the master of manipulation, except there’s no hiding my hatred when I flip Sapori the bird behind his back. It had taken all of my self-discipline to listen to his bullshit. A certain type of willpower that earns the right to unleash punishment.
Sapori thinks he holds all the cards––he doesn't. I have the winning hand and I’ll reveal it soon enough.
No one will ever comprehend the lengths I’d go to keep my wife safe—how it's impossible for me not to react—and out of the question that he’d survive the weather warning ahead of him.
Hurricane fucking Dré.
Giovanni joins me. “Scott Acer, huh? Do you know him?”
“Yeah. He was supposed to marry Sinéad before I stole her out from under his nose.”
