Page 44 of My Sunfall

“Wrong answer.” His hold tightens a fraction, and he angles the fork closer. “I already told you that you don’t get to decide when it comes to me.”

The darkness in his eyes morphs into something I’ve come to recognize all too well. Unfettered lust.

Shit, my resistance arouses him. Heat coils slowly in my belly as I drown in the dark spark of desire I see in his gaze. God, it even arouses me.

No! No, no, no! My throat constricts and I lower my eyes to hide my confusion and pray that the heat creeping up my neck is not noticeable. I open my mouth and take a small bite, feeling his eyes burning into my skin, his possessiveness washing over me in waves, pulling me under and drowning me. I chew and swallow.

“Good girl.” His rough praise travels down my spine like an electric current. I instinctively squeeze my thighs together.

Shit.

Once I’ve swallowed the forkful he supplied, he releases my wrist and grabs my jaw to tilt my face up so that I have no choice but to look into his eyes. “See? Even the food you take, your wellbeing, everything that comes to you belongs to me.”

My heart hammers against my ribs. He is clearly unhinged. And still, I can’t deny the shiver that crawls down my spine in a mix of fear and something darker, and I hate that the realization both terrifies and enthralls me.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chiara

I wake to the light of dawn filtering through the curtains, my body aching in every place that has been claimed and marked over the last week. My muscles are sore and my skin is still tingling with the ghost of Lucas’ kisses, but my mind is sharp and restored.

Every night since moving in, he has been relentless and demanding, pushing me over the edge of mind-blowing orgasms until I am left trembling and spent, yet craving more. Even now, in the light of day, the memories of his caresses on my skin, of his rough voice rasping dirty words against my ear, send a shiver through me.

I get up and drag myself into the adjoining bathroom. My reflection stares back at me from the mirror, cheeks flushed and lips swollen. I quickly look away before the memory of him pulls me under. I hate that I can’t stop thinking about him. The thought of his hands, of his lips, of the way he controls my body tugs at something deep inside me. I could fight it. I should fight it, I should escape…but my body, my mind, and worst of all, my heart whisper that maybe I don’t want to. Even now, with him gone, I can feel the pull, and it terrifies me.

I hastily finish getting ready, trying to ignore his toothbrush next to mine, his cologne and aftershave taking up space on the counter, all the signs stating that he belongs here. That we belong here.

When I step into the kitchen space, I notice my mug sitting on the counter next to the teapot with fresh tea leaves, ready to be filled with hot water from the kettle. I am confused by his little acts of attention I notice everywhere. Or is it his way of asserting his control? As if on cue, my phone chimes and I pick it up from the charger on the kitchen counter.

Traffic wasn’t too bad, I’m already in the city. Left you tea and something to eat, don’t skip it, cara mia. I’ll call when I’m free, be good.—Heart emoji—

I snort. It sounds…ordinary, like we are any regular couple. But although the message seems mundane, I can’t miss the underlying control and possessiveness. Even far, he manages to make sure that I am aware of him, as if he were here in the kitchen, in my phone, under my skin. I slam the phone down as if it could burn me.

Be good. He has no right to order me around, and yet the thought that he remembered my tea makes my chest tighten. Damn him.

* * * *

The bell above the coffee shop door chimes as I prop it open to let in the cool morning air for a few minutes. The familiar smell of roasted beans and Edna’s fresh pastries grounds me. She still comes in at dawn to deliver her home-baked pastries, saying it keeps her busy and gives her a purpose. I can open the shop blindfolded by now, I recognize all the regulars who file in to get their daily caffeine and sweets before starting their day. The routine is comforting in its simplicity—it’s giving me a sense of control over the life I’d built for myself when I ran.

I am putting away the cups I finished drying off when the bell chimes. I look up and my smile freezes on my lips. Kristen Mayers sashays toward me with a little entourage of two, her heels clicking noisily on the floor, head held high and perfectly styled hair bouncing with every step.

“Cara,” she purrs with a fake smile. “Imagine my surprise when I heard that you were the one living with Lucas Romano in the cottage he bought out of town.”

My stomach drops but I try to keep my voice even. “What can I get you?”

She doesn’t answer. Instead, she goes on in her sugary sweet voice. “I just had to see for myself.” Her eyes rake over me, taking in my plain apron adorned with coffee stains and my messy bun. “Your coffee must be incredible, or whatever skills you might have to keep him interested. I mean, he barely looked at me, and I thought we might actually…connect.”

Heat creeps up my neck and my blood rushes in my ears. I grip the counter to steady myself, forcing my voice to sound neutral. “Maybe he’s not interested in…connecting.”

Her eyes flash dangerously but her smile widens and turns cruel. “Oh darling, don’t get too comfortable. Men like him love the thrill of the chase. They don’t commit, especially not to”— her eyes trail over me again—“someone so insignificant.” Her smile turns smug. “He’ll tire of you. It’s only a matter of time.”

Anger ignites in my gut, hot and irrational. “Then I guess we’ll see, won’t we?” I reply calmly, although I’m far from calm inside.

Her smile falters but she composes herself in a blink and tosses her perfect hair over her shoulder. “Three vanilla lattes with extra foam.” And with that, she struts toward a table, followed by her two silent shadows.

I turn to the espresso machine, the hiss of steam covering the sound of my pulse hammering in my ears. Her words echo with each heartbeat, poisonous and burning.

‘Someone insignificant.’ ‘He’ll tire.’