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“Your brother is up for parole; he’s kept his nose clean in here, and it looks good for him. I need you to work on her to have a word with Daddy to pull some strings and get me out.”

I blink in confusion.

“Are you serious? You fucking killed a man, a cop, a father, a husband. You’re exactly where you are meant to be.”

“We’re both killers, son. Don’t act like you’re above me.”

I run my tongue over my top teeth in frustration. “If you are comparing my military career to your drug bust that went wrong, where you killed a man to save your own skin, then yeah, it's not the same.”

“A spade is a spade; a killer is a killer. If that helps you sleep at night, son, you keep lying to yourself, but you are no better than me.” His words cut me deep. I’ve been fighting my whole life to block him out, to try and be the furthest thing from him that I could be. My palms begin to sweat and I take a steady breath.

Do not bite back. Remain calm.

“I’m not asking her that,” I say firmly.

His mouth turns into a snarl, and the look in his eyes makes my blood run cold. “I think you will. It would be a real shame if something were to happen to her. Your uncle tells me she’s a pretty one, nice legs, great set of tits. I bet she sucks a cock like—”

I cut him off, slamming my hand against the glass of the booth. “You won’t fucking touch her,” I growl.

“Hey, let's keep things calm, gentlemen,” a security guard aims toward us.

I run a frustrated hand through my hair, hanging my head and tugging at the roots.

“I’ll play fair, give you some time to work on her, but the clock is ticking, Marco. Don’t keep me waiting.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

Gabriella

I leave the coffee shop in a daze. The anxiety is so strong it makes me feel unsteady on my feet. I’m not thinking clearly because I forget all about my car I parked at the studio. Instead, I flag down a cab and give the driver Brad’s address. I punch in the security code and ride the elevator up to his floor, where I let myself in with the key he gave me.

I walk into the living area and see him on the couch. I want to fall into his arms, tell him everything and ask him for help, but when I’m met with a stoney-faced man who looks at me like I’m invisible, my body retreats, and I go into my safe mode. I shrink myself down.

I note the bottle of whiskey on the counter and the empty glass.

“Hey,” I say quietly. “Are you okay?”

“Never better,” he says flatly, his voice stern; a tone he reserves for others, but never me. He doesn’t look at me, just stares at the floor, his shirt half unbuttoned and untucked from his suit pants.

“I can, um, leave if you want to be alone,” I stammer.

He lifts his head slowly, and when our eyes lock, his face softens and I see him, my Brad. I drop my purse to the ground, rush over to the couch and settle beside him, wrapping my arms around him on instinct. He pulls me into his lap and clings to me just as tightly as I am to him.

Something feels off. I lean back, cradling his face in my hands and stroking my thumbs along his stubbled jawline, loving the way the roughness feels beneath my soft skin. He doesn’t hesitate, he grips the back of my neck, crashing our mouths together in a frantic kiss, but there’s an edge to it; it feels different. There’s something very final about it, and with every stroke of his tongue, I feel him pull further away, and I am powerless to stop it.

He presses his forehead to mine, and we fight to bring our breathing back to an even pace.

“I think we need to talk,” I breathe out.

“We do.”

“I just saw Patrick,” I say hesitantly.

“And what did he want?” he grits out.

I think about telling him the truth, but something stops me. “He wants to make things official.”

Brad’s nostrils flare, and his eyes squeeze shut as if he is having his own personal battle. He pulls away, and I watch as his jaw tenses.