Page 111 of Wicked Sinner
"Isn't it?" I look at him, suddenly wanting to hear what he’ll say next. For him to convince me that I can let go. That it’s worth all the fear of trusting him with everything.
"It started that way," he admits quietly. "When I first took you, it was about control. About showing everyone that Caesar Genovese was back and wouldn't be challenged." His hand drops to my wrist, tracing the marks there from the handcuffs, his jaw tightening with anger at the evidence of my captivity.
"But it's not about that anymore," he continues, looking back up at me. His hands linger on my arms, like he needs to keep touching me to believe I'm really here. "It hasn't been about that for a long time."
I can feel my pulse thudding in my throat, my lungs tightening as if it’s hard to breathe. He makes me feel this way. He always has. And it feels impossible, I realize, to imagine feeling it for anyone else. It feels like a loss, to imagine it gone. "What's it about then?"
He's quiet for so long, I think he might not answer. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough with emotion.
"You want to know what I thought about during those hours when I didn't know where you were? When I thought I mightnever see you again?" He reaches up to cup my face in his hands, his thumbs stroking over my cheekbones, as if Tristan’s not standing right there. And, when he touches me, I forget, too. All I can see is him, as Caesar looks at me, his blue eyes locked on mine. "I thought about how you never backed down from me, not once. From the very first night, when you could have been terrified and compliant, you fought me. You challenged me."
My throat tightens. "Caesar?—"
"I've never known a woman who's more stubborn, more capable, more ferocious than you are," he continues, his eyes intense on mine. "You're going to be an excellent mother to our child. I couldn't imagine a better wife."
I feel tears pricking at the back of my eyes, that feeling like I can’t breathe intensifying. No man I’ve ever tried to date or slept with has ever looked at me like he’s looking at me now—like I'm something precious, something worth fighting for.
"I respected you when you were my captive," he says softly. "But somewhere along the way, I fell in love with you."
The words hit me like a physical blow. I stare up at him, searching his face for any sign that he's lying, that this is some kind of manipulation. But his eyes are completely sincere, vulnerable in a way I've never seen before.
"I know I agreed to give you a divorce when this was all over," he continues quickly, like he's afraid I'll stop him from saying what he needs to say. "I know that was our deal. But Bridget, I can't lose you again. I can't go through what I went through today, thinking you might be gone forever. I know I’m supposed to let you go after this, but I can’t?—"
He takes a shaky breath, and I realize my silence is making him nervous. Caesar Genovese, the man who faces down rival crime bosses without blinking, is nervous because of me.
"I should have told you sooner," he says. "I should have told you before it came to this. But I was afraid—afraid you'd thinkit was just another way to control you, another lie to keep you trapped. And maybe it started that way, but it's not that now. It's real, Bridget. What I feel for you is real. I swear—I would swear on anything you like that it is.”
I open my mouth to respond, but no words come out. My mind is reeling, trying to process everything he's just said. He loves me. Caesar loves me.
The thing is, I think I might love him, too.
I think I fell in love with him the day that he asked me to show him my world. When he ate cheap hot dogs and tried roller skating, and walked on the beach with me. When he saw my house and it made him feel at home instead of disgusting him because it was so much less than what he has.
I saw a different side to him. And I still don’t know how our puzzle pieces fit together—but all of that made me want to find a way to fit them together anyway. To find out how to love him and let him love me without losing myself. Even if it means arguments and standing my ground and figuring it all out time and again—I wanted to try. Just like I told him.
And maybe it was also tonight, when I sat in that chair for hours, completely certain that he would come for me. Not because he owned me, not because of my pregnancy, but because he wantsme. As I am, as messy as I am, as unsophisticated and plain as I can be.
"Bridget?" His voice is uncertain now, and I realize I've been staring at him without saying anything for too long.
Before I can find the words to tell him how I feel, Tristan clears his throat.
“This is very touching, but maybe you can finish this conversation later. We need to get moving, Caesar. Staying here isn’t helping anyone, and we do have a few injuries on our side. Nothing fatal, but I’m sure the men would like to get stitched up and get home. You know it’s better not to linger, Caesar.”
We need to leave. I know that, can feel the urgency in Tristan’s words and the tension running through Caesar. But I can't stop thinking about Caesar's confession, about the words I didn't get to say yet.
He loves me. And I think—no, I know—I love him too.
Caesar nods and starts guiding me toward the door, but I resist for a moment.
"Caesar, what you said before?—"
"We don't have to talk about it now," he says quickly, misreading my hesitation as rejection. "I know it's a lot, and you need time to think?—"
"No," I interrupt, catching his hand. "That's not what I was going to say."
Hope flickers in his eyes, but before I can continue, Tristan clears his throat again impatiently.
"Not to interrupt whatever this is, but we really need to move. For fuck’s sake, Caesar?—"
