Page 33 of Wicked Mafia Beast
"Da." He stands beside me, close enough that I can feel his warmth cutting through the autumn chill, the wind catching loose strands of his dark hair and sending them across his jaw. "It helps. To make things grow."
He’s sharing again and for a second my throat tightens. I swallow hard and look away, staring at the roses instead of the man who planted them. “That’s what my writing does for me.”
We stand in silence for a long moment. The city hums below us. The wind carries the scent of herbs and flowers and him.
Then I remember why I'm here. What I am. What he is.
I turn to face him, tilting my chin up to meet those dark eyes. The softness from a moment ago still lingers in the lines of his face, making him look almost human. Almost approachable.
"I want to see Sloane."
The words shatter the moment like a brick through glass.
I watch the softness drain from his expression in real time, his features hardening into granite, a scowl darkening his brow untilthe beast is back and the man who grows roses has vanished completely.
"Nyet."
"She's my friend." I step toward him, fists clenched at my sides. "She got hurt because of me. I need to know she's okay."
His expression doesn't flicker. Not a single crack in that stone facade. "She's okay." His voice is flat. Final. "My people collected your laptop bag from her at the hospital. She's healing. She'll be fine."
My laptop bag. The words hit me square in the chest and my knees nearly buckle with relief. My research. My files. Everything I have on my uncle.
"Where is it?" I grab his forearm without thinking, fingers digging into muscle that feels like warm steel. "When can I have it?"
He glances down at my hand on his arm, one dark eyebrow arching almost imperceptibly. "It's secure. You'll have it tomorrow."
I release him like he's burned me, heat flooding my cheeks. "And Sloane? When can I see her?"
His jaw tightens, a muscle feathering beneath the skin. "You can't." He crosses his arms over his chest, and the motion makes him look even bigger, more immovable. "She has to stay low. Same as you. No contact until we've dealt with your uncle."
Anger sparks in my chest, hot and bright, burning away the momentary softness. "You can't just lock me away and expect me to?—"
"I can. You asked me for my protection, this is what it looks like." He turns to face me fully, his massive frame blocking the light from the stairwell, and suddenly I'm very aware of how small I am compared to him. How easily he could break me if he wanted to. "Your wish. Your life. My house. My rules."
"That's not?—"
"You want to live?" He takes a step toward me. I force myself not to retreat. "Follow them. You want people to die?" Another step. His body heat washes over me like a wave. "Break them."
I hold my ground, my hands curling into fists at my sides. "I can’t hide forever, Kon. As beautiful as your castle is, I can’t stay here indefinitely."
"I will not let another person harm you." His voice drops, low and rough and deadly serious. "Keep that in mind when you try to break out of here. Because you will try. I know you will. You leave all your emotions on your sleeve. You care deeply and live by the passion in your heart. It’s also the fastest way to die.”
His words are fire and brimstone to the warrior screaming inside me. My jaw clenches so hard my teeth ache. I hate that he's right. Hate that he can see through me so easily, like I'm made of glass instead of grit and survival instincts.
“And when you do,” he continues. “You won't just be risking your own life. You'll be risking the lives of everyone who tries to stop you and those you think you are helping."
The words land hard against my heart.
He's right. I know he's right. The truth of it burns in my chest. Miguel is dead because he saw me leave and didn’t stop me. Itdoesn’t matter that I had no idea he spotted me. And Sloane is in a hospital because I dragged her into my mess.
On the flip side, no one understands why I refuse to sit down, shut up and be a good girl. I've spent my entire life being controlled, being contained, being told what I can and can't do by men who think they know better. My father. My uncle. Every editor who rejected my work because Seamus made a phone call.
And I'm so fucking tired of it.
The anger boils over before I can stop it.
I don't think. I just move.
