Page 128 of Beautiful Scars

“Kill, come on, that’s not—”

Slap.

Slap.

Slap.

I have no fucking clue if the tears streaming down my face are tears of joy or pain. I have no idea if I’m even keeping count properly.

All I know is that I’ve never met anyone like Kill in my life before.

And that I never have to meet another person again, if he’ll always be there.

Eventually, the slaps stop. I’m a shuddering mess, my face as wet as my pussy for reasons I can’t begin to fathom. But instead of fucking me, all he does is drag me back onto his lap. And then he cuddles me against his broad, warm, bruised chest as I half-cry, half-giggle myself into calm.

He feeds me a piece of flapjack. And then he gives me a soft kiss. “I’m committed,” he murmurs.

My heart soars, and that scares me more than anything. I don’t understand how this man can turn me from reluctant hostage to a wide-eyed romantic with two words.

I look up into his eyes, the dark of a shadowy emerald. Despite his bruised face, despite the tears still itching as they dry on my cheeks, I want nothing more than to tell him I feel the same way. Maybe...maybe even that I think, possibly, that I might be starting to fall for him. Fall in love with him.

Instead, I push out a breathless, “What?”

Full up serious, he says, “I’ll punish the brat out of you yet, just wait.”

And then my heart plummets, hits the ground, and explodes like the motherfucking Hindenburg.

I don’t need his jokes and his charm and his sidestepping. I need to know that, when he says “I do”, it’s not just because I’m the First Minister’s daughter and he’s a ruthless drug lord with a plan.

I know, rationally, all I have to do is ask. A simple, “do you like me?” or the classic, “want me to have your babies?”...anything would do. No more guessing. No more games. Except for sexy ones, of course.

But the questions stick in my throat like a fishbone.

Because what if he says no?

Even worse, what if he laughs at a thought so ridiculous I can’t even get it past my throat?

I glance away, clearing my throat. “Our coffee’s getting cold,” I say in a thick voice.

“And whose fault is that?” he quips.

I laugh, but it sounds hollow and, from the flash of a frown on Cillian’s face, he hears it too.