Page 13
Story: Mafia Maiden
“I didn’t come here to forgive you,” I say.
“I didn’t expect you to.”
“I’m still angry.”
“You should be.”
“But I’m also tired of pretending I don’t know what this is.”
He finally looks at me. His eyes—those brutal, possessive, beautiful eyes—are filled with something I can’t name.
“You don’t owe me anything, Emilia.”
“I know,” I whisper. “And that’s the only reason I’m choosing to stay.”
His jaw clenches. His breath catches like I’ve punched him in the chest.
“I could have walked out that door this morning and never looked back. But I didn’t.”
“Why?” His voice is hoarse. Raw. “Why the hell would you stay after everything I’ve?—”
“Because I love you.”
The silence swells around us.
I say it again, softer this time. “I love you. The monster. The man. The parts you try to hide and the parts you throw in everyone’s face. I don’t want safety if it means silence. I don’t want peace if it means pretending I don’t crave the way you ruin me.”
His eyes flash. He grabs my wrist. Not roughly—but firmly. Anchoring himself.
“I don’t know how to be good,” he says. “I don’t know how to unlearn the violence or tame the possessiveness. I don’t know how to touch you without wanting to claim you.”
“Then don’t.”
His breath shakes.
I rise from the pew, step between his legs, and straddle him.
He goes still.
His hands fall to my hips, gripping tight through the silk of the robe. His gaze drags over me—hair tousled, mouth bare, thighs parted just for him.
“You’re playing with fire,” he murmurs.
“I’ve already burned.”
I untie the robe slowly, letting it fall open.
His eyes darken.
No bra. No panties. Just skin and want and the kind of heat that lives in the marrow of my bones now.
“Jesus Christ,” he growls. “You’re killing me.”
“Then die with me.”
He grabs me—mouth crushing mine, hands sliding up my thighs, my ass, my back. The robe falls away completely, and I gasp into the kiss as he lifts me in one fluid motion and carries me out of the chapel.
We don’t make it back to the bedroom.
“I didn’t expect you to.”
“I’m still angry.”
“You should be.”
“But I’m also tired of pretending I don’t know what this is.”
He finally looks at me. His eyes—those brutal, possessive, beautiful eyes—are filled with something I can’t name.
“You don’t owe me anything, Emilia.”
“I know,” I whisper. “And that’s the only reason I’m choosing to stay.”
His jaw clenches. His breath catches like I’ve punched him in the chest.
“I could have walked out that door this morning and never looked back. But I didn’t.”
“Why?” His voice is hoarse. Raw. “Why the hell would you stay after everything I’ve?—”
“Because I love you.”
The silence swells around us.
I say it again, softer this time. “I love you. The monster. The man. The parts you try to hide and the parts you throw in everyone’s face. I don’t want safety if it means silence. I don’t want peace if it means pretending I don’t crave the way you ruin me.”
His eyes flash. He grabs my wrist. Not roughly—but firmly. Anchoring himself.
“I don’t know how to be good,” he says. “I don’t know how to unlearn the violence or tame the possessiveness. I don’t know how to touch you without wanting to claim you.”
“Then don’t.”
His breath shakes.
I rise from the pew, step between his legs, and straddle him.
He goes still.
His hands fall to my hips, gripping tight through the silk of the robe. His gaze drags over me—hair tousled, mouth bare, thighs parted just for him.
“You’re playing with fire,” he murmurs.
“I’ve already burned.”
I untie the robe slowly, letting it fall open.
His eyes darken.
No bra. No panties. Just skin and want and the kind of heat that lives in the marrow of my bones now.
“Jesus Christ,” he growls. “You’re killing me.”
“Then die with me.”
He grabs me—mouth crushing mine, hands sliding up my thighs, my ass, my back. The robe falls away completely, and I gasp into the kiss as he lifts me in one fluid motion and carries me out of the chapel.
We don’t make it back to the bedroom.