Page 35

“ C an I get you anything before I leave, Mrs. Ramirez?” Mrs. Marsden’s voice drifts in from the doorway, crisp and polite as always.

I blink, pulled from the haze of exhaustion and…satisfaction still lingering from last night. Stretching out the ache in my spine, I offer her a small smile, shaking my head.

“No, thank you, Mrs. Marsden. Have a good night!” I say, waving as she nods and quietly shuts the door behind her.

The moment she’s gone, I exhale and sink into my chair, tilting my head back and staring at the ceiling, willing my heartbeat to slow. A delicious ache pulses low in my body, a deep, thrumming soreness that I don’t resent in the slightest.

Because he put it there.

Sammy had been an animal last night.

After he came home, after he eavesdropped on my conversation with Andrea and heard me confess the one thing I hadn’t yet found the courage to say to him— to his face —he completely lost it.

We barely made it past the kitchen.

And God, I’d been just as desperate, as ravenous, as he was. We had collided—no, clashed—with all the pent-up emotion between us, all the time spent resisting, repressing, pretending we weren’t built for each other.

Later, after the hunger had abated, he had carried me upstairs.

Tenderly. Reverently.

We showered together, but even then, he hadn’t let me go. He worshipped me, touching every inch of my body with the kind of slow, aching devotion that had left me trembling.

Like he was memorizing me, claiming me again in a way deeper than just flesh and bone.

I shiver, running my fingers lightly over my collarbone, recalling the heat of his mouth there, the whispered mine against my skin.

I don’t know how long I sit like that, replaying last night, before a deep, familiar voice pulls me from my trance.

“What’s got that look on your face, Pixie?”

I gasp, my eyes flying open, my pulse leaping as I nearly tumble out of my chair.

“Jesus, Sammy, you scared me!” I kinda scold him, pressing a hand to my chest.

His brows furrow, eyes narrowing as he stalks toward me with slow, predatory purpose. My breath catches, my body reacting before my mind can even process the threat and promise in his stare.

“You need to start paying attention to your surroundings,” he murmurs, voice dropping lower as he plants a hand on the back of my chair, caging me in.

The warmth of his other palm cups the nape of my neck, fingers threading into my hair, tilting my head up so I’m forced to look at him.

But then he kisses me.

And just like that, everything else disappears.

His lips are firm but teasing, his thumb stroking over the curve of my jaw, making me dizzy, making me want more.

Christ, I have no dignity when it comes to this man.

I melt against him, my fingers curling into his chest, his scent filling my lungs, his heat wrapping around me like a second skin.

“Hello, Wife,” he whispers, pulling back just enough to brush his lips over mine again, softer this time.

A promise. A tease.

“Hi,” I manage, my voice breathless.

“You, uh, wanna grab a bite with me before Santos drives you home?”

“Yes.”

The word leaves my lips before I can even think of another answer. Because the thought of not being with him, of sitting in that massive house alone, knowing he’s out there in the city tangled in something I don’t fully understand.

I hate it.

I mean that. I hate it.

I know my father is involved somehow, and I know Sammy won’t tell me more than he thinks I can handle. I should be used to that. But I’m not.

Still, at least tonight I get this. I get him for a little while.

He watches me for a moment, his eyes knowing, seeing too much, before he nods and steps back.

“Take your sweater and purse. It’s chilly out,” he says, already reaching for it like he doesn’t trust me to remember.

I frown. “We’re not just going to the cafeteria?”

“Nah, Pixie,” he replies with a lazy smirk, his hand settling at the small of my back as he guides me to the door. “I’m taking you to one of my favorite places.”

The small eatery is tucked away in a quiet side street, one of those places you wouldn’t notice unless you were looking for it. There’s no fancy sign, no flashy décor.

Just dim lighting, the scent of garlic, chili, and freshly pulled noodles thick in the air, and a few scattered tables occupied by old men playing chess.

The moment we step inside, I feel watched.

Not by the people dining.

But by his men.

I don’t need to turn around to know there are at least three of them stationed outside, probably a couple more blending into the restaurant itself.

Sammy never really lets me out of his sight.

And I don’t know how to feel about that.

Maybe I should be angry, but I’m not. Life can be dangerous, I understand all about that.

I’m the only daughter of Angel Fury, for fuck’s sake.

“So, Chinese?” I ask, tilting my head up at him as he leads me toward a table.

“Yeah. Northern Chinese. They make the best hand-pulled noodles here,” he says, pulling out a chair for me like a gentleman, though there’s nothing gentle about the way his gaze lingers on my mouth when I sit.

Then he turns and says something in perfect Mandarin to the elderly woman behind the counter.

My head jerks up.

What the fuck?

I stare at him, watching as he holds a short conversation with the woman in her native tongue, followed by what is obviously some familiar ribbing because he is blushing, and she is laughing.

His voice remains smooth and assured throughout the conversation.

She beams at him, then at me, nodding approvingly before bustling off to the kitchen.

The second he sits, I grip the edge of the table.

“What the hell was that?”

Sammy arches a brow, lips twitching. “What?”

“You—you just spoke Mandarin,” I accuse, still trying to process what I just witnessed.

He shrugs. “Yeah.”

“Since when do you speak Mandarin?”

“Since I was about ten and Mom and Dad took me to China.”

He leans back and watches my expression carefully.

“Do you speak any other languages?”

“Yes,” his answer is short.

“How many? Which ones?”

Sammy leans across the table and reaches for my hand.

“Why do you want to talk about this? Huh? What’s really wrong?”

“Nothing,” I begin but that’s a lie, so I stop. “I don’t know,” I say, and really, I don’t know what I’m feeling.

Sort of anxious, maybe.

I had to work hard in school just to graduate. Suddenly, I question if I am such a good match for Sammy. He traveled a lot and is well educated.

And me, I mean, I struggled for along time just to learn to read?—

“Hey, easy, Pixie. Me speaking other languages should not upset you like this,” he says.

“I just, I don’t like not knowing things about you.”

It’s lame, but I double down and stick to my guns. I shrug.

“Pixie, there’s a lot we don’t know about each other, but we have a lifetime to learn.”

I narrow my eyes.

No shit.

But before I can say anything, the first dish arrives.

Fresh cucumbers glistening with sesame oil, seaweed salad, bok choy sautéed with mushrooms.

And then— the soup dumplings.

I can smell them before I see them, steaming, perfectly plated, served in a bamboo steamer.

I swear, I moan a little when the old woman sets them down.

Sammy chuckles, shaking his head like he finds me ridiculous.

“What is this?” I ask when she returns a few minutes later with a massive bowl filled with thick, hand-pulled noodles swimming in fragrant broth.

She sets it and two smaller bowls, chopsticks, scissors, spoons, and a ladle down between us.

“It’s awesome,” he answers, ladling some broth into a small dish for me. “This is the house special soup with hand pulled noodles, slices of short rib and beef brisket, some tendon, pickled veggies, boiled eggs, and the best broth in Manhattan.”

I pick up my chopsticks, ready to dig in, but he catches my wrist.

“Careful,” he murmurs, his voice like silk and steel. “It’s hot.”

And just like that, my hunger for food takes a backseat to my hunger for him.