Page 2 of Crowned in Sin
But that was three months ago, and since then, the only contact I had from Don Nico D’Ambrosio was fragmented memories of that night in my most twisted dreams.
So it’s just a little fucking surreal to see him up close and in person again.
He refuses to give up. “Give me five minutes."
"I'll give you zero." I turn and start walking, but I don’t get very far when his hand shoots out and closes around my wrist.
Heat rushes up my arms, and his grip tightens as he pulls me back towards him past an invisible barrier where he becomes the only thing I can see in the world, and I’m forced to crane my neck to look up at him.
Between us, the champagne continues to bubble happily and steadily while a drop of sticky sweat rolls down the side of my ribs from the warmth rolling down his body.
He speaks and I can feel my body thrumming like I’m a tuning fork responding to his exact pitch. "I need to know that you’ll stay silent about what happened that night, Lydia.”
I hate how he says my name like he’s tasting it, just like when he wrapped his fingers around my throat that night and pushed me against the wall of my shower.
Heat rushes up my face when his thumb brushes against the pulse in my wrist. "Silence about which part, exactly?"
"About whichever one scares you more."
"You didn’t seem to care about me staying silent ninety days ago." I do my best to keep the quiver from seeping into my voice. "Why now?"
“I wasn’t the don back then.”
I try to pull my hand back, but all it does is make him tug me even closer. His patience cracks a hairline, and underneath is something that looks suspiciously like a man holding himself very, very still.
“And which scaresyoumore, Don Nico?” I breathe as his thumb continues to run maddening circles against my skin. “Me telling people about how you took the crown? Or me telling people about what we did after?”
“Does it matter?” He leans in closer until his lips are inches from my ear, and my body tenses when the edge of his suit brushes against the thin fabric of my green dress. “That night was a mistake that never should’ve happened, Lydia.”
Wow, fuck you.
"Don'tLydiame like we're on speaking terms.” I clench my jaws to force myself back to the present. “And let me go.”
“Not until you give me an answer.” His grip tightens. “Piccola.”
My blood is practically boiling now. But whether it’s boiling from anger or desire is impossible to tell.
My free hand holding the glass starts to move before either of us realizes what is happening.
Champagne arcs out in a perfect golden ribbon. It catches the scarlet sunset on its way, and hits him square in the face—lapels, jaw, collar, and that stupid unforgettable grin.
His hand frees me and suddenly I can breathe again. I gulp air into my lungs and take a small stumbling step backwards.
He neither flinches nor wipes as he continues looking at me.
I slam the empty glass on the nearby bar without breaking eye contact. “Clear enough answer for you?”
I turn on my heel before he can answer. The garden path crunches under my heels. I walk like I'm going somewhere I’ve always meant to go—spine straight and chin up while his touch continues to burn like a brand against my skin.
Behind me, I feel his gaze on my back.
And then I hear him laugh.
It’s not a cruel laugh but a startled, full-bodied, and genuinely delighted sound. Almost like he’s just realized that the thing he came over to prevent is about to become the most interesting problem of his entire life.
The fury rising up my throat at his laugh is white-hot and bone-deep. But the worst part is that it’s not even aimed at him, but at myself.
I continue walking to the edge of the lawn towards the chateau overlooking the grounds, hoping to put as much distance between myself and him as I can.
