Page 40 of Christmas Mafia Prince
“No,” he whispers, taking hold of my chin and making our eyes meet. His touch is like an embrace, so warm and soothing I barely remember being held like this by anyone. “Of course not. You should never feel sorry for those who try to hurt you, baby.” He blinks and lets go. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—It just makes me so angry that someoneso undeservingthought he had any rights to you.”
He swallows and pushes his fingers through his short waves as I watch him, mesmerized and already so very deep in his grasp. “It feels good to have someone who knows those secret things about me. After I got captured and they cut me trying to force information out of me, I couldn’t tell my then-partner what really happened. He got upset. Called me a liar, and then packed his things and left.”
My heart drops and I stroke his arm in a way that I hope is just friendly support, even though we made love on this very bed in the morning. “I’m so sorry, Damen. That must have been so hard. To be wounded and then left on your own.”
“That’s my curse,” he admits, rubbing his face. “Nobody ever got to see the real me. Nobody until you.”
I stare into his hazel eyes, knowing I might be falling in love in this very moment. There’s nothing I want more than to be special to someone. To be the apple of their eye. Or I’m just too horny for my own good, which has always been my downfall.
“And I’m guessing your parents didn’t know about him?”
Damen shakes his head and looks at me with eyes so intense and soulful I’m about to lean in for a kiss. But then he’s up, padding toward the couch where he’s planning to sleep instead of staying at my side, where he belongs.
“No. I always thought that when I do come out, I’ll just bring over the right guy. But clearly, it’s difficult for me to haveeverything I want,” he adds and unfolds the blanket resting on one side of the couch.
Be still my heart. Not now.
The chasm between the bed and the couch grows to the depth of the Grand Canyon. I want to hug him so badly. Not just because he’s hot. I now see so many other facets of him. He yearns for love. He’s a good uncle. He loves art. He’s protective, and a gentleman who’ll sleep on the couch even though he’d surely rather be here with me.
“You will get it. You deserve it all,” I say in a soft voice, even though thinking about another man sharing this room with him makes me homicidal.
He rests on his side and covers himself with the blanket while I hog his massive bed. “Thanks. I needed to hear that today.”
The light from the fire illuminates his handsome features as I lie down facing him.
The hum of the saws resonates in my mind like some sudden-onset PTSD, and my stomach clenches.
I made the right choice.
I really did.
No, really.
I did.
“Goodnight,” I whisper.
Chapter 15
Damen
I’mgettingjittery.
It’s been a week since the attempt on Killian’s life. A week of games, good food, and getting to know each other better, but somehow he hasn’t made a move on me yet.
Perhaps he has more self-control and patience than I gave him credit for, but it’s the day before Christmas, and if I don’t up mygame, Killian might slip out of my grasp for good. I can’t have that.
Iwon’thave that.
With each night on the couch, away from his sweet-smelling body, soft mouth, and tight ass, I’m getting more impatient. I want to—no, Ineedto make him whimper in delight. I can see him eating me up with his eyes, and I push the limits of PDA in public just to get my hands on him, but in private, he’s not budging.
Even my mother talked to me the other day, and said, “I wasn't so sure when I saw the piercings, and the hair, and the tattoos but he's a good one, Damen. Father will come around.”
And now I’m staring down the barrel of losing him after Christmas? The one man who accepts all of me while keeping his sweet personality?
So I’m upping my game today. I’ll charm him in new ways. Despite his love of the grim and macabre, he has a romantic soul, and I will speak straight to it. All without any lies, just as I promised, because while I am secretly working on seducing him, my intentions are pure.
“I named him Renoir, after returning from a year at a university in Paris. He looks like something the impressionists would have loved to bring to life,” I say and pat my horse's side. He’s a beautiful American Paint with blue eyes and crisp white patches on a dun coat. I push my hand down my pocket and pass an apple into Killian’s hand. “Go on, offer it to him on a flat palm.”
