Page 47 of The Boss
But he drags my chair close in one motion, making a loud scrape sound that startles me. He puts his mouth to my ear.
“Enough,” he says, gently placing his huge, warm hand on my throat. “You will not seduce me. You will not gain my trust. I don’t give a fuck what you spend your time doing, cello, painting, walking the woods, fine. Just stay the fuck out of my way,” he leans back, his expression grim. Then he looks away and removes his hand as he says, off handedly, “Your workout was almost two hours long, wife, go and get some food.”
My mouth falls open before I can stop it.
Of course he knows what I was doing alone in my room but how, if there are no cameras?
I get up quickly and head to the kitchen. I want to defy him and head the other way but I feel light-headed. I do need to eat. I do need to keep up my strength.
The confidence I felt after talking to Ellie is gone.
If anyone can go toe-to-toe with Skulls, it’s you.
I appreciated her words but I don’t know anymore. He just…affects me. And not in the way I was ready for. I’ve brushed off mafiosos my whole life. I’ve dodged creeps and nasty old capos. I’ve played around with a few guys I thought were hot but assoon as we moved from flirting and hinting to actually kissing and touching, the heat evaporated like steam.
I should hate sitting on Quinn’s lap. I don’t.
My skin should crawl off my bones every time he leans in to whisper threats in my ear. It doesn’t.
I should be scared, not impressed, not…heatedat the way he fights with his bare hands. I should not have been flooded with warmth when he wrapped his long fingers around my throat.
I should be happy he’s so uninterested in me. It’s unusual to be rejected this way, but I should be relieved. Sure, I want to seduce him for my plan, but he’s still a mad man. Underneath my plots and plans, my genuine self should be thrilled at the thought of him banging his little Irish mistress, and thus staying the hell away from me.
And, damn it, I’m not.
CHAPTER 24
Quinn
“You’re not watching your back!” I yell at Finn. He’s still a teenager but he’s hungry and driven. I like him. But he’s our weakest fighter. And he’s too emotional.
“How’m I—ugh—supposed to watch my back and fight this—ow!—fucker at the same time?” He asks between blows.
“By anticipating. And you’re lighter on your feet, you should be faster. Plus, he’s ancient.”
“I’m younger than you!” Mac yells back.
“Aye, and I still beat all of you. Embarrassing,” I say and everyone in the clearing chuckles.
I’m joking around with them, but I’m twitchy. I love sparring in the open, in the dirt. No fancy gear or weapons. In many of our attacks, it ends up like this. One man against one man, or two or three. Sometimes there are guns, sure. Knives too. But in our circles, both parties are usually smart enough to disarm each other. Then what are you left with? Your brain and your hands. Your speed, your training.
We don’t normally train out here this much, though.
But I can’t speak freely in my own damn house.
Luna Mancini is fucking everywhere.
She walks around the grounds like a ghost. My people wouldn’t even notice her if I hadn’t warned them. She’s good. Quiet, subtle. And listening. Sneaky as hell, that’s what my little wife is.
Easier for us to discuss clan business out here. We spar and we strategize. I listen, answer questions or make decisions when necessary. I think clearly. Or, clearer. No siren to distract me with her dark stormy eyes and barely-there clothes.
I miss the peace we had before.
I miss my own bedroom and my own damn bed. But sleeping out in the woods seems safer.
Coward.
Mac suggested I send her away. I considered it. But she’s too smart. I can’t have her out in the wild, or even worse, on the internet, gathering intel, which is exactly what she’d do.
