Page 33 of Brutal Vows

But I already know enough about the Irishman to realize that the only way that will happen is if I give him what he wants first.

So I sit.

I grab my glass of wine and guzzle it.

Then I look at him in nervy silence, waiting.

He sits there and smolders back at me, a whirlwind of unspoken questions in his eyes.

I’m about to jump back up and run out of the room when he says abruptly, “Why do you live with your brother and niece?”

“Why do you have a spiderweb tattoo on your neck?”

It’s out before I can stop it. I had no idea I was curious about that stupid tattoo until just now.

He sets his forearms on the table and leans closer. “I’m the one asking the questions.”

“I know you think you’re in charge of everyone in the universe, Mr. Quinn, but you’re deluded.”

“I’m not in charge of everyone in the universe. Only everyone in this house.”

God, how I hate him for that. How I hate his dominating confidence and his pathological maleness, his assumption that he—and only he—is the one in control.

I hate it more than anything that he’s right.

Because in our world, men are in charge.

And alpha males like him are the very top of the food chain.

My poor sweet Lili. He’s going to eat her alive.

“I won’t hurt her,” he says suddenly, startling me.

“What?”

“I said I won’t hurt her. I know you’re worried about that, but I’ve never laid a hand on a woman in my life.” He laughs softly. “Well, not in anger.”

I look away, unnerved that he can read my mind so easily, and also by the vivid image my mind unhelpfully provided me of him on top of a naked woman, thrusting between her spread thighs as she arches and cries out in ecstasy.

My face flushes hot again. It seems to be happening with concerning frequency.

“Let’s try again. Why do you live with your brother and your niece?”

I flatten my hands on the tabletop and stare down at them as I gather the necessary mental armor to answer.

“When my husband died, I…” I stop to clear my throat. “I’d never lived alone before. I went straight from my father’s house to Enzo’s. After the funeral, I went home to that big, empty house, and I couldn’t stand it. The awful silence.”

And the awful memories. Lurking goblin memories that haunted me at every turn.

“So I packed a bag and came here. I’ve been here since. I’ll get a place of my own eventually. I just… haven’t yet.”

“How long have you been a widow?”

“Three years.”

Three blissful, broken-bone-and-bruise-free years.

I notice my hands shaking, so I pour myself the last of the wine from the bottle and gulp it down. Quinn watches me silently, his gaze intense.