Page 55 of Wicked Mafia Sinner

I pull my hair over one shoulder and pad barefoot toward the kitchen, the sweater shifting against my thighs with every step.

He's at the counter with his back to me when I round the corner. He pulled on slacks at some point. Disappointing, but he’s left off a shirt and the view from behind is still mouthwatering.

The ink and scars on his back shift as he pours from the coffee pot, the muscles in his shoulders rolling with the motion. One mug for me, one water glass for himself because the mug situation remains unresolved despite three days of cohabitation. I make a mental note to order this man a second mug.

"So much for naked coffee service," I mutter, easing into the kitchen with him. Rowan leans a hip against the island across from me, arms folded over his bare chest like a shirtless bouncer guarding the coffee pot.

The imagery makes me smile, but the low-slung waistband of his slacks sits low enough on his hips with the button undone. I smile for a totally different reason as I visually follow the trail of hair I traced with my finger twenty minutes ago. It disappears beneath the fabric like an invitation and it’s hard not to want a sweet treat with my coffee.

His eyes sweep over me. The pumpkin spice sweater, the bare shoulder, the collarbone, the locket sitting gold against the warm fabric. His gaze lingers where the sweater stops at mid-thigh, and I cross one leg over the other slowly enough to make him wonder what's underneath.

The ghost of this morning's doorway grin tugs at his mouth. Then he looks away. Hands me the mug.

Our fingers touch on the ceramic. Not a brush. A full overlap, his scarred knuckles against my smaller fingers. An hour ago those hands were spread across my stomach, pulling me against him in the dark. Thirty minutes ago one of those hands was wrapped around his cock while I watched. Now they're transferring warmth through a coffee mug with a steadiness that makes me want to scream.

I take a sip and my eyes roll closed. The moan slips out before I can catch it, low and indecent and completely involuntary. Three days in and the man's coffee still pulls sounds from me that should be reserved for the bedroom. And I’m not even a little embarrassed by it.

I open my eyes and find him watching me over the rim of his water glass. He doesn't look away. The heat from the doorway is still there, banked but burning, and for a second I think he's going to set the glass down and close the distance between us.

He doesn't. He turns back to the counter and the shift is instant.

I caught it before he even got out of bed, the split second between the kiss on the top of my head and the way his body went rigid beneath me. Tension coiled behind the alertness that wasn't there when he fell asleep holding me.

Last night was wonderful and now the man is bracing for impact.

His jaw is set tighter. The ring is back on his finger. He must have grabbed it from the nightstand on his way to the bathroom this morning, slipped it on while I was still memorizing the warmth of his side of the bed. He's turning it now, the silver catching the light with every rotation. His eyes sweep the compound in a pattern I haven't seen before. Now he's scanning every corner of the room like he's expecting company.

"What happened?"

His gaze settles on me and I can see the gears turning behind those pale eyes, weighing truth against silence, calculating how much to hand over and how much to lock away.

I wish he would tell me what is putting the creases across his brow. I can’t help him if he doesn’t share what has him worried so much he’s looking at the shadows in his den like a monster might jump out at us any second.

“If you had the strength to confess your love to me last night, there’s nothing else left in the world you can’t tell me.”

He brushes the back of his knuckles over the slope of my cheek when I step up to his side.

"A situation at Genesis happened last night. But there’s no need to worry. It's handled."

Three sentences. That’s all I get. I'm quickly learning that Rowan communicates in redacted sentences.

“Another body?” Screw him if he thinks he has to protect me from everything. “The world doesn’t stop turning because we’ve locked it outside your doors, Rowan. You need to tell me what is going on. I do have a life to get back to, you know. A flower shop I’ll have to care for. I still have a hefty mortgage to pay.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“What? The body, the problem at this place you called Genesis? Which problem? They seem to be mounting. I know it would be great if you could, but I don’t think you can simply throw money at this problem and make it go away. If that is your intention. Your son is a real threat to me, you and a helluva lot of people.”

He tosses the rest of his coffee down the drain. Apparently all this has left a sour taste in his mouth. Well, guess what. Me too. But I’m figuring out when he doesn’t have answers, Rowan Volkov goes silent.

“Silence isn’t the answer, Rowan.”

He rinses the glass and places it in the dishwasher before raising his gaze to mine.

“No, it’s not. But I can take care of your mortgage while I figure out how to end the threat against your life. In the meantime you need to trust me. One problem at a time and I will get you back to your normal life.”

“I do. Trust you.” I don’t even think about the words before I blurt them out. “Up until this very moment you haven’t given me a reason not to.”

He watches me for a long moment, the muscle in his jaw working once before he speaks. “A man named Enzo Marchetti. You have to understand a few details of his confinement. He was a prisoner at Genesis, locked in a concrete cell for months. No windows, no contact with the outside world.”