Page 111 of Cruel Romeo

She launches herself into story after story. Bob’s outstanding assholery at work, a date gone so badly it sounds like a 90ssitcom plot, her neighbor’s cat that keeps sneaking in to pee in her closet.

For a few minutes, I let myself drift, lulled by the illusion that I’m just me again. No secret past, no Bratva husband, no suffocating lies.

And then it comes, inevitable as the bill. She leans in, eyes sharp and glittery, like she’s just sniffed out gold. “So. How’s married life?”

I force a laugh, stirring what’s left of my coffee. “It’s… fine.”

“Just ‘fine’?” Jemma’s eyebrows wiggle like she’s back in tenth grade. “You’ve got to give me more, girl. Otherwise, I’m just gonna start making up songs.”

“Please, no songs.”

“Sammi and Petyr, sitting in a tree, F-U-C?—”

“Okay, okay!” I throw my hands up in surrender. “Fine, I’ll talk.”

She settles on her elbows, waiting.

And waiting.

And waiting…

I try to think of something, anything that’s harmless enough to tell her. Something true and safe at the same time, though those two words have hardly ever been in the same sentence for me.

But my brain betrays me, unspooling images of Petyr in utterlyunsafesituations.

His mouth, hot against my skin.

His eyes, burning holes through me.

The way he held me down a few nights ago, rough and demanding, until I shattered beneath him.

Heat flashes up my neck. I duck my head, wishing the table would swallow me whole. But the damage is done now—Jemma has seen. Like a hound, she zeroes in on her scent.

“Oh myGod,” she crows, pointing at me. “You’re blushing. You’re actually blushing.”

I choke on my sip and cough. “I amnot.”

“Are, too.”

What are you, twelve?I want to say, but all I can think about is that night. He surprised me, but… not in a bad way. Definitely not in a bad way.

I want to do that again.The thought catches me off-guard. Granted, it’s not the most effective way to conceive, but?—

I fucking loved it.

Jemma must see it, too, because she doesn’t let up. “You aresoin love, girl.”

“What?” I straighten up. “No, I’m not.”

“Mhmm. Keep telling yourself that.”

“I mean it,” I insist, but my voice cracks, betraying me.

“Uh-huh,” Jemma says, unimpressed. “And yet, here you are, looking like someone who just hobbled her way down to breakfast from her honeymoon suite. Don’t fight me on this. You’ve got the glow.”

I groan, covering my face with my hands. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’ve got a hot plate for a face, so who’s got it worse?”