Page 33 of Vicious Secrets
There’s a quip about him stabbing or shooting himself on the tip of my tongue, but it won’t release itself. The fuzziness swirling around my tits steals my voice away. Sirowantsto have things in common?
Vittore and his wife Mel approach us. Vittore’s grown out his dark beard since our wedding. He no longer looks like an obvious relative of Siro’s. The young blond woman lifts her chin when Siro looks at her. Mel quickly moves her gaze to me and smiles softly.
Vittore rubs her upper arm, and he opens his mouth to speak when Siro cuts him off.
“We expecting trouble?”
His cousin’s lips twitch. “No.”
There is so much information loaded in his one-word answer my head spins. Siro and his cousin stare at each other in silence. There’s a conversation happening between them composed of nothing but subtle body language. I can’t tell if either of them is actually moving or if my eyes are twitching.
“Are they always like this?” I ask Mel.
One corner of her lips turns upward. “Yes. You’ll get used to it.”
Vittore snorts. “Or learn it.”
Siro looks away and takes a drink. Is he unhappy or indifferent to Vittore’s suggestion?
“We’ll have to catch up soon, Mel.” I smile at her, flicking my gaze to her husband to try and give him permission to drag her away. I want to strike up a conversation with Mel, but her palpable discomfort around Siro would make me feel like a captor.
Vittore takes my hint, winks at me, and guides Mel toward another couple before she can respond with more than a smile.
“So, what needs to happen tonight?” I ask, turning toward my husband’s body and leaning into him.
Siro stiffens and not from pain. It’s a few seconds before his arm tightens around me in response. “Nothing. We blend in.”
“Well, that’s boring.” I chuckle and look around the room.
The gazes pointed at us look away as I meet them. Eyes dart to whatever is closest, like bugs trying to escape a bird. The only thing that seems to be scarier than a happy Siro is me showing him affection.
“Boring means safe.”
My fingers clutch my glass harder. I nod and try to hide the fear stabbing my gut from every angle.
Siro’s a beacon for everything wrong in my life, and yet, in these fake moments we share, hefeelslike an actual partner. We’ve spent such little time playing these games, but each round feels more natural than the last. The time he’s been spending with me in private only adds to the soft spot I’m growing for him. And not because half of that time turns into mutual masturbation.
Siro pulls me against his chest, turning me so my forearms rest against him. He leans in and kisses the top of my head. “You’re not a target,” he says before pulling his head back.
“But you are?” I whisper back. The room around us fades away as my eyes lock on the expanse of his bright white button-up under the black blazer. It creates a feeling of being boxed in but not trapped. No, I feel protected and damn near bulletproof.
“Always.”
My lower lip trembles. The side of Siro I see in public has infinite potential. He’s sweet, soft, affectionate without smothering, and fiercely protective. It’s the kind of attention any woman could fall for.
“That bothers you?” he muses, the hint of a smirk on his lips. Or maybe that’s a smile.
The grumpy monster comes home injured once a week, is willing to talk out our issues, treats me like a queen, and I’m somehow not supposed to care for him? Is he actually stunted or just an asshole?
“Of course it does. I want my pony.”
“Siro, my son!” a man says in a raspy voice from behind me.
Siro’s hold on me loosens. I turn away from his body and look up, expecting to see my in-laws, Reg and Carista. Instead, I see a wiry man no more than fifteen years older than my husband. I remember him from the wedding, but not his title or name. A woman with dark piercing eyes and blond-streaked hair loosely clutches his arm.
She blinks at me, her gaze rolling up my body and pausing on my stomach. Is she judging me for wearing a tight-ish dress, being slightly overweight, or checking if I might be pregnant?
“Uncle Renzo.” Siro nods at the man. “Aunt Tiff.”
