Page 20 of Desperate Crimes (Mergers & Acquisitions #6)

Y ep.

The Hades vibes are real.

And I can’t tell anymore if I’m the stolen bride or the one who walked willingly into the underworld in silk and high heels, whispering take me.

“So, um, where are we, exactly?” I ask, forcing my voice to sound casual as we pause by the massive wall of glass overlooking the garden.

Another Christmas garden.

Like the one hidden behind the door in the bedroom. Only this one is breathtaking—larger, wilder.

A maze of rosebushes in every imaginable color coils through the lawn like something out of a fever dream.

The black roses have the spotlight and are planted in all the best places.

Tall pine trees stand like quiet sentries, framing the space with reverence.

There’s even a hint of mist curling along the ground, like the air itself knows how to set a scene.

And the worst— or best —part?

It feels like it was built for me.

Every inch of it.

That thought alone sends a tremble through my core.

He glances at me, then back out at the garden like it’s nothing.

Like he didn’t just tear me out of my life and drop me into a gothic romance fantasy with blood-warmed gazes and obsession-soaked roses.

“An hour south of the city,” he says softly. “Two hours from your cousin’s place.”

My breath catches.

Lucy.

Her house.

The party.

Where I was just last night.

Panic flickers in my chest.

Shit. My phone. Where the hell is my phone?

They must be looking for me by now.

Mom’s probably already filed a police report, given the media her favorite headshot, and assumed I’ve been trafficked or murdered.

Which is fair, honestly.

And yet—here I am.

Wrapped in silk and lace, standing in a stranger’s kitchen— except he’s not really a stranger, is he?

He’s Nico Jr.

My fantasy. My stalker. My captor.

My Hades.

And somehow, I’m fine.

More than fine. I’m okay, I think?

No bruises. No chains. No cold basement floor.

Just multiple orgasms, soft lights, clean towels, lusty glances.

And him.

Watching me like he’s not sure if he wants to feed me or fuck me again. Or both.

Please be both.

This all feels like something out of a dream.

Like I wandered into the pages of a dark, decadent fairytale and forgot how to find the way out.

I look around at the house Nico built—every tile, every nail, every rose bush and perfectly strung light—and I feel it in my bones.

This isn’t just a home. It’s a kingdom built for one purpose.

Me .

All of it bears his mark. All of it says mine .

It’s obsessive. It’s overwhelming. It’s terrifying.

And it’s beautiful.

Like Hades dragging Persephone into the Underworld—not by force, not really—but by offering her a throne and a crown she never even knew she craved.

What happens if I choose to stay?

What if the world wants to paint me as the stolen daughter, chained to a dark god’s desire?

I know the truth. I’m not some girl ripped from the spring.

I want the fall. Always have.

And when they come for me—because they will —I’ll have to decide if I want to return to the light or reign with the devil who built me a garden in the dark.

“Come on,” he says, and I follow.

The kitchen smells divine—buttery and warm, like cinnamon and caramelized sugar. And then, to my horror, my stomach growls loud enough to echo.

I immediately want to die.

He raises one dark brow, smirking like the devil that he is.

“Hungry, Princess?”

I feel the blush hit my cheeks before I can stop it. Hot and instant.

“Oh my God,” I mutter under my breath.

He moves toward the coffee pot, casual and smooth, like this is any other Saturday morning and I’m not some weird combination of hostage and houseguest.

He pours the dark liquid into a mug, doctors it, then turns and hands it to me.

It’s warm. Heavy. Familiar.

I take it, fingers brushing his, and bring it to my lips.

I sip.

And I freeze.

Two creams. One sugar.

Exactly how I take it.

My heart skips a beat.

The mug fits my hand like it was made for me.

Like everything here was.

I look up at him, and his expression is unreadable—except for the heat in his sapphire blue eyes.

That low, burning thing that simmers just under the surface every time he looks at me.

“You think I don’t know how you take your coffee, Princess?” he says, voice like smoke and sin.

“I think I’m afraid of how much you know,” I whisper.

His smile is slow. Dangerous.

But I don’t back away.

I sip again.

And wonder what the hell it says about me that I like it.

That I like him.

That I’m standing in the underworld with a mug in my hand, wondering if I’ve already given up heaven.

I look up at him, and there’s something dark and warm in his gaze.

Like a fire banked under a blue velvet sky.

He steps closer, and I swear the air around us changes—thickens.

My breath catches as his fingers brush along the line of my jaw, featherlight but sure, then drift down the side of my neck like he’s memorizing the feel of me.

Like I’m something precious.

Like I belong to him.

“I know just about everything there is to know about you, Leanna,” he murmurs, voice low and edged with something primal.

“And the rest?” His thumb drags slowly across my pulse. “I’ll learn.”

“You will?” I whisper, even though the question is pointless.

I already know the answer.

He always gets what he wants.

With his free hand, he takes the coffee mug and places it on the counter next to his.

Then, he nods once, deliberate. I can feel the hum of it through his hand as he cups the back of my neck—his palm broad and hot against my skin, fingers threading into my hair like they’ve always belonged there.

And he drags me to him.

Not gently.

Not cruelly.

Just inevitably.

My heart slams once, violently, against my ribs—then it’s gone, forgotten, because his mouth crashes down on mine with barely restrained violence.

And God help me— I need it.

Nico’s kiss is not sweet.

It’s not patient.

It’s devouring .

All heat and hunger and possession, the kind of kiss that tears something out of you and replaces it with him.

He tastes like coffee and sin.

Like obsession and promises that should terrify me. And yet, my knees go weak.

My fingers slide into the belt loops of his jeans, and I hold on tight, just to keep myself anchored.

Because fuck, he’s so big.

Not just his body— though that alone makes my head spin —but his presence.

The way he invades every inch of space inside me.

My lungs.

My thoughts.

My heart.

And even more frightening?

He’s not lying.

He does know me.

The way I like my coffee.

The way I read dark romance novels late at night and pretend it’s not him I’m imagining.

The way I smile when I’m pretending I’m okay.

He sees through it all.

He knows.

And part of me— some wild, aching part —wants to let him keep knowing. Wants to see how deep this madness goes.

Because being kissed like this?

It doesn’t feel like the beginning of something awful.

It feels like the first breath of something I’ve been drowning without.

And some part of me— some deep, broken part —wants him to.

“Goddamn, Princess,” Nico growls, voice gravel-thick and dripping with need. “I wanna rip this dress off your body and fuck you again, right here on this counter.”

My stomach— traitorous and completely without shame —grumbles in response.

Again.

Shoot me. Right now.

Heat floods my cheeks. I make a strangled sound, half mortified, half ready to crawl under the counter and disappear.

But before I can recoil or die of embarrassment, his mouth finds mine again.

Soft this time.

Tender.

And I forget everything for a second.

Just lips. Breath. Warmth.

“We’ll do that later,” he murmurs against my mouth. “I need to feed you first.”

“Feed me?” I repeat faintly, dazed.

He pulls back, blue eyes wicked and knowing. “So, eggs or pancakes?”

“Oh. Um,” I hesitate. “Both?”

He grins like I just gave the right answer on a test he wrote for me.

“Yeah. Both sound good to me too, Baby.”

Just like that, my dark, obsessive captor— the man who took me from my world and folded me into his like I belonged to him —becomes this.

Soft. Domestic. Sweet, even.

Like the devil knows how to cook breakfast and make you forget he dragged you into the underworld.

He leads me to a stool at the counter with a light touch on my lower back, like he’s been guiding me for years, and turns toward the stove.

And then?

He cooks.

Like really cooks.

Whipping eggs like a pro, flipping pancakes with casual perfection, moving around the sleek black kitchen like it’s his second skin.

The smell is heaven—butter, cinnamon, maple—and my mouth waters before the first plate even hits the counter.

“My parents both cook,” he says as he slides a stack of pancakes onto a plate. “They taught me. And Mrs. Pirillo, our housekeeper before she retired? She was, well , she babysat me, so she could be terrifying, but her cheese blintzes could stop wars.”

He grins, almost shy. It makes him look younger.

Reachable.

I laugh, a real one, and chime in.

“Dad can’t cook to save his life. He once tried to make scrambled eggs and lit a kitchen towel on fire. But Mommy? She’s got these old handwritten recipe cards from my Nonna. The kind stained with butter and flour and mystery. Growing up, we all learned them.”

His eyes soften. “I like that. I like hearing you talk about home.”

“Well, it’s not like you don’t know them,” I reply shyly.

“I know. But I like hearing it from your perspective, Princess.”

“You do?”

“I do,” he says, and my heart squeezes so tight inside my chest, I’m surprised I don’t pass out.

I mean, just like that, we’re talking .

We’re eating pancakes and eggs at a marble counter in a house I didn’t know existed twenty-four hours ago, chatting like this is the lazy morning after a long, perfect date.

We eat some more.

Nico feeds me from his fork, and I have to work not to fall off my chair.

I mean, can you say swoon?

We talk.

He’s funny. Brilliant. And he listens. Really listens. To me.

We do the dishes together.

I dry. He washes.

Our elbows bump.

He throws a sudsy sponge at me.

I flick water in his face.

He catches my wrist and kisses my knuckles like I’m a duchess in some old black-and-white film.

And it’s not forced or playacting.

It’s normal.

Better than normal.

It feels right.

Like we’ve done this a million times.

Like we were made for this.

For each other.

Like fate— dark, twisted, obsessive fate —had a plan all along.

This plan.

And that’s exactly when reality crashes back in.

Because I’m not in my apartment.

I didn’t wake up in my bed.

I’m not safe in the way I used to think safety meant.

I’m in the home of a man who stole me.

Who watched me.

Planned this.

Built this place like a shiny trap just for me.

But God help me, I don’t want to run.

I want to stay right here. With him.