Page 27 of Wicked Sinner
By dawn, I'm exhausted and no closer to freedom than when I started. But I'm not giving up. I'll never give up.
I’m not going to let him win.
I'm sprawled on the floor by the window, watching the sunrise paint the sky in shades of pink and gold, when I hear the lock turn. My entire body tenses, every muscle coiling like a spring as Caesar steps into the room.
And my traitorous heart leaps when I see him.
He’s wearing dark grey sweatpants, the outline of his cock visible against the fabric, thick even when soft, the outline bumpy from his piercings. My lips press together as I force myself not to lick them at the memory of how that felt in my mouth.
The sweatpants hang low on his hips, revealing a sliver of tight abdomen and dark hair between them and the black T-shirt he’s wearing that hugs all his muscles. The ink on his arms is visible, and I look away, not wanting to try to figure out his tattoos and end up staring.
There’s a slight darkness under his eyes, as if he didn’t sleep well either, but other than that, he looks fine. His hair is damp, slicked back, and curling against his neck, and I swallow hard as my mouth goes dry.
A man like him shouldn’t be allowed to look like this. It isn’t fair.
Caesar puts the tray he’s holding down on the top of the dresser, a frown curling his lips as he looks at me. “You don’t look like you slept.” His gaze flicks to the perfectly made bed.
“That’s because I didn’t.” I look at him defiantly.
He lets out a breath, rubbing the back of his neck as he looks at me tiredly. “Bridget, you need rest.”
“Fuck off.” I smile sweetly at him, and he nudges the tray.
“I brought breakfast. Eat, and then take a nap. A long one. You need food and sleep?—”
My mouth waters as the scent of the food reaches me. There’s bacon on there, definitely, and orange juice, and what looks like some kind of sweet, sticky pastry. Eggs, I think. My stomach growls traitorously, reminding me that I haven't eaten since the spaghetti I had for dinner last night.
"Go to hell," I tell him without moving from my spot on the floor.
His mouth twitches, irritation clouding his features. "I figured you might be hungry. It's important that you eat regularly now, for the baby. The same goes for sleep, Bridget. I’ll do all I can to take care of you, but?—"
The casual way he mentions our child, like he has any right to be concerned about its welfare after what he's done, makes my vision blur with rage. I surge to my feet, and Caesar’s hands go up in a gesture that might be meant to be calming.
It has the opposite effect.
"Don't you dare," I snarl, advancing on him. "Don't you dare stand there and pretend to care about this baby when you just ripped me away from everything I know and love."
"Bridget—"
"No!" I stare him down, hands clenched at my sides. I can smellhim, too—his skin without his cologne, just soap and the fresh, masculine scent of him. My stomach twists. His dark blue eyes are locked with mine, and a shiver runs down my spine that I tell myself is disgust. "You don't get to say my name. You don't get to act like you're doing this for anyone but yourself."
"I'm doing this for all of us," he says quietly. "For you, for me, for our child. You'll understand that eventually."
"The only thing I understand is that you're a monster."
Something flickers across his face—hurt, maybe, or anger—but it's gone so quickly I might have imagined it. "I'm a lot of things,bellissima, but I'm not a monster. Not to you."
“Fuck off with the nicknames,” I growl. "You kidnapped me!"
"I brought you home." His face is implacable, and I want to slap him again.
Something in me cracks at that. "This isn't my home!" The words tear from my throat, raw and desperate. "My home is that garage, that house, everything my father left me. Everything you took me away from!"
"Your father is dead," Caesar says, his voice gentle but firm. "He can't protect you anymore. But I can. From everyone who might want to hurt you. Who might want to hurt our child. From poverty and need and loneliness. I can protect you from all of it, Bridget?—"
The mention of my father hits like a physical blow, and for a moment, I can't breathe. The grief is still so raw, so close to the surface, and Caesar wielding it like a weapon makes me see red.
I launch myself at him.
