Page 141 of I'm sorry, Princess
It’s so sudden, so raw, I almost think I imagined it. But then he says it again, firmer, his voice breaking on the edges.
“I love you so much it fucking hurts, Serena.” We stop moving. I swear my heart stops with us.
“I can’t get enough of you. Even when you’re with me, you’re not close enough. I need you in my fucking bloodstream.” His hand comes up, brushing away the rain, or maybe my tears.
“Since the first time I laid eyes on you, I knew.” His gaze is unblinking, piercing. “You had to be mine. I tried to push it away, but you only came closer… faster… intoxicating me with your vanilla scent.”
My breath stutters.
“My love for you isn’t healthy,” he admits, his thumb tracing my cheek. “I’m obsessed. I want to own every part of you, your body, your mind, your fucking soul. I want you to look at me, only me. To want me. To need me.” He kisses me, a slow press of lips that’s both a claim and a promise.
“I’m no good for you,” he says against my mouth, “but I don’t fucking care.”
Another kiss, deeper this time.
His voice drops lower, colder. “Make no mistake, princess… if you ever touch another man, or let him touch you, I’ll make sure he’s conscious enough to watch me fuck you. Hear you scream my name. Then I’ll put a bullet between his eyes and spank you while his lifeless eyes are still open.”
His hands grip my ass, hard enough to bruise. “Do. Not. Test. Me.”
And then his mouth is on mine again, devouring, leaving me breathless and shaking.
The thunder roars, the rain falls, and my world narrows to nothing but him.
I’m in love with Italy.
And I’m completely, hopelessly in love with him.
Chapter Thirty-eight
Lorenzo
The kitchen smells like fresh espresso and warm bread, sunlight bleeding weakly through the tall windows. My mother is already up, dressed, her long gray curls loose over her shoulders. She moves quietly, like the house itself is still asleep.
“Here, dear, your espresso.” She places the cup in front of me. Her voice is soft, but there’s an undercurrent to it, like she already knows I didn’t come home for sentimental reasons.
Serena’s still upstairs, curled in my bed. She needs the rest. We arrived late, ate, showered, and collapsed. I, on the other hand, have been awake since six. I paced my old bedroom for an hour, trying to decide how the hell I’m going to ask my mother about Thomas Beaumont without detonating something I can’t control.
I take the cup, the heat steadying my grip. “Thank you, Mother.” I sip, watching her, waiting for the right opening. “I actually wanted to speak to you about something.”
Her face stills. She sets her own cup down carefully. “I figured there was another reason for you coming home besides seeing your mother.” Not accusing, just matter-of-fact. She’s known me my entire life; she can smell an ulterior motive before I even open my mouth.
“What can I do for you?”
“I need you to be honest.” My voice is calm, but inside, my patience is thin. I take another sip, then lean forward. “I need to know what kind of business my father had with Thomas Beaumont.”
Her fingers twitch, moving against each other like she’s kneading invisible fabric. “Serena,” she says quietly.
My jaw tightens. “What about her?”
“She’s the reason you’re asking, isn’t she? She’s his daughter.”
Not surprised. I’d told her Serena’s last name. And in New York, there aren’t many Beaumont worth mentioning.
I push my chair back, come around to sit beside her. I catch her restless hands and hold them still. “She’s not the reason I’m asking.” It’s half a lie, I need answers for more than business reasons. But the truth is, knowing her father’s past might change how I handle her… how I protect her.
She meets my eyes, her own gaze sharp, searching. “Your father never had direct business with Thomas Beaumont,” she says finally. “They were acquaintances. That’s all I know.”
I study her face. She’s too composed for that to be the whole truth. “Then why did he beat him?” I pause, let the weight of the words land. “To death, to be more exact.”
