Page 51 of The Ache That Stayed

“And you punched the wall like a caveman.”

The corner of his mouth lifted.

“Fair.”

Silence stretched between us, thick and uncomfortable. I looked away, but I could still feel his gaze heavy on my skin.

The fire crackled softly behind me.

Finally he said, slower this time,

“What will it take for you to forgive me?”

I looked at him. Really looked at him.

Santino Rossi had an ego the size of Mount Everest. His Sicilian pride alone could probably fuel half the Mediterranean.

I should have said something sharp. Something mean, cruel.

But instead, before I could second-guess myself, the word left my mouth.

“Beg.”

His eyes lifted to mine. Dead calm.

I kept eye contact and I held his gaze.

“On your knees.”

I expected anger. Mockery. Maybe even another argument.

Because Santino Rossi didn’t kneel for anyone.

Only except… he did.

His movement was slow, controlled, intentional.

One knee touched the floor, then the other—eyes never leaving mine. My breath stalled halfway in my chest.

Oh.

Oh no.

He didn’t stop there. He lowered further. One hand, then the other, placing his palms on the floor. Then slowly—very slowly—he lowered himself onto all fours.

He stayed there for a beat, letting the image sink in. My lips parted and my throat suddenly felt like sandpaper. Dry. Desert dry.

Fuck. Me.

I took my foot out and now sat upright, clenching my thighs hard, trying to hide the damp heat gathering between them.

The corner of his mouth lifted up.

Then, he started moving toward me. Crawling.

Every muscle in his back shifted under his skin. Shoulders rolling. Spine flexing. Power contained instead of released. Light from the fireplace catching his face and side, making him look like a predator, slowly stalking toward his prey.

It was primal.