Page 65

“Just tell me what you want?” I press. The uncertainty keeps gnawing at me, and I hate it.

“I already told you,” he states, eyes darkening. “You.”

Before any thoughts or conclusions form, he turns back to the counter as Emily approaches. Her eyes are fixed on me. “Can I get you another one, Adrian, or do you want to try our new flavor?” Jesus, this woman with her fucking coffee…

Dante speaks before my mouth can form words, “Emily, was it?”

“Yes.”

“Get him his usual,” he replies. “He doesn’t like breaking habit, isn't that right, baby?” Dante snakes an arm around my waist, pulling me closer to his side. His hand settles into a warm, firm grip on my hip.

I don’t flinch at the touch; I refuse to give him that.

She hesitates, her smile thinning. “Oh. I didn’t realize you were…” She trails off, ears turning pink.

“We’re not,” I mutter, the words coming out softer than intended, so soft, in fact, I don’t think she heard it.

Dante’s fingers tighten just slightly against my hip. “Not what?” he asks mildly.

I glance at his arm that’s slung around me, then back at Emily. “I don’t want to order anything, thanks.”

She nods quickly and moves to the opposite end where a customer stands waiting. Dante leans closer, his mouth near my temple. “What’s wrong, baby? Don’t like labels?”

“I don’t like assumptions. And don’t call me that,” I say through gritted teeth.

“Funny,” he murmurs. “You don’t seem all that bothered.”

I slide my hand down, peel his wrist off me, and his arm falls away without resistance. “Don’t touch me.”

A flicker of amusement crosses his face. “You seem to like it when I touch you.”

“The fuck I do,” I reply, crossing my arms over my chest.

Dante laughs, almost throwing his head back before lowering his voice. “Don’t act like you didn’t get turned on when we sparred at The Nine Rounds. Or when I pushed you up against a wall at the bar.”

“That was before I knew you were the psycho trying to kill me,” I claim just above a whisper. I should deny his claims, but he is right, unfortunately. I had, but one thought was on my mind, and that was to get absolutely violated by this man in the best way possible. Fuck, that feeling overreached far past that day, and I can’t seem to think straight when he is near.

I shove that thought down and instead settle on how I should feel towards him: “You disgust me.”

“Oh, is that so?” he replies, tilting his head. “Is that why you smiled when I pinned you in the alleyway last night? Fuck, and you definitely seemed to like it when I kissed you.”

“I fucking bit you.”

“Fore-play, baby.”

I’m going to kill him.

It’s infuriating how easily he gets under my skin with no force, no effort, and no god-damn warning. Every time I think I’ve cleared him out, he turns up again in the worst possible moment, dragging my attention sideways.

It’s not the feeling that bothers me.

It’s the persistence.

The way he lingers.

Like a splinter I can’t reach, lunged too deep into my skin to pull out clean and too small to justify the damage it would take to dig for it. So, it stays.

And he knows it. That’s the part that grates.