Page 29 of Rent a Mob Boss

His bedroom is quiet in a way the rest of the house isn’t.

The rest of the house hums. There’s always something happening. The distant sound of men talking outside in voices too low to make out. Ms. Beaumont moving around the place, always busy. But in here, with the door closed, it’s just the clock on the nightstand and my own breathing.

I pulled a shirt out of his drawer ten minutes ago—dark, soft from washing. It smells like him even when it’s clean. I put it on because it felt like the right thing to wear while waiting for a man in his own bedroom. I’m sitting on the bed, hands clasped between my bare knees, and I’m waiting for him.

But exactly what am I waiting for? That’s the problem. I’m trying very hard to make it look like I belong here. I’m also chewing the inside of my cheek, because there is a war happening in my head and neither side is winning.

Because the thing is, I’m not stupid.

I keep telling myself that, like a mantra. Like if I say it long enough, it’ll start working. I’m not stupid. I notice things. I’ve been noticing them for weeks—months, really, if I’m honest with myself. The guards. The way they’ve multiplied. New faces that appear without explanation.

The phone calls Dorian takes in the other room with the door closed. The way he comes back from them wearing a different face.

The way Tristan materializes out of nowhere, and Dorian’s whole body changes.

I’ve noticed all of it, and I’ve explained it away, only every explanation feels thinner than the one before it. Like a sweater that’s been washed too many times. I can see through it now, but I keep wearing it because the alternative is being cold.

I should ask him, shouldn’t I?

The thought sits in my lap like a live thing, demanding attention. Just ask him. Open your mouth and form the words, you idiot. Say, Dorian, what do you actually do? Or better yet: Dorian, why are there nine men on the lawn when there used to be two? Why does Tristan carry a gun? Why does everyone in this house look at me like I’m the only person who doesn’t know the punchline?

I could ask. I should ask. He expects me to live here and share his bed, and I think that means I’m allowed to ask questions. I think it means I deserve answers.

But here’s the part I can’t get past: what if the answer is a dealbreaker?

I’ve been building whatever this is for months, brick by brick. I went from calling him Mr. Moretti to calling him Dorian to sleeping in his bed and waking up next to him. Every single one of those steps felt like walking further onto a bridge I couldn’t see the end of.

And now I’m out here, and the bridge is beautiful, the view is insane, and I’m afraid to look down. If I ask, it will mean looking down.

If I ask, and the answer is something I can’t live with, this is over. It would mean losing him and losing Lillie.

So I don’t ask. I sit on his bed and argue with myself, and I hate that I’m the kind of person who is choosing comfort over truth. But I also know comfort is underselling it. This isn’t comfort. This is something I didn’t know I was looking for until I found it, and I guess I’d rather hold it with my eyes half-closed than open them all the way and watch it disappear.

“Tomorrow,” I whisper to the empty room.

The door opens, and he steps in. He closes it behind him, the lock clicks, and the sound of it does something to my pulse that should probably be studied by medical professionals.

He stops when he sees me. The way a man stops when he rounds a corner and finds something he wasn’t expecting. His gaze moves from my face to his shirt to my bare legs folded on his bed. Something shifts behind his eyes. Something that was already there, simmering under the conversation he just had with Tristan, but is now fully, unmistakably present.

He’s looking at me the way a man looks at a meal after a very long day. And just like that, my entire argument evaporates like steam. Every single thought I was having is replaced by one: he’s looking at me.

“Hi,” I say. My voice is smaller than I mean it to be.

He doesn’t answer right away. He walks toward the bed. Slow, deliberate. I really wish he wouldn’t look at me the way he’s looking at me right now. Not because it makes me uncomfortable in any way. Because every second that passes makes my body feel a little warmer, and my resolve feel a little softer. Right now, it’s the texture of room-temperature butter and is on its way to melting.

“That’s my shirt,” he growls.

“I know.”

“It looks better on you.”

“Ithought so, too.” The corner of his mouth twitches before his hand comes up so he can slide his fingers into my hair. He tilts my face until it lines up with his, and the questions I was going to ask him dissolve into a feeling I can’t name.

Tomorrow, I think, as his mouth finds mine. I’ll definitely ask tomorrow.

His other hand finds the hem of the shirt, and his fingers brush the bare skin of my thigh. The touch sends electricity through me so sharp I gasp against his lips.

“I’ve been thinking about this all night,” he murmurs against my mouth in a voice that’s low and rough. One of his hands brushes my breast. It makes me tremble while my nipple tightens almost painfully. “Sitting downstairs earlier. Talking to Tristan just now. Going through the motions. All I could think about was you, waiting for me in here.”