Page 10 of Filthy Little Regrets (Princes of NYC #2)

six

CASSIA

A single ray of sunlight spills between my curtains, illuminating my airy gray bedroom walls and eradicating shadows. Curled on my side, tucked beneath the secure weight of my blankets, I inhale. One, two, three, four. Hold. Exhale. Four, three, two, one. Hold .

The only way for me to stave off more anxiety attacks is to start with trying to control my traitorous body. Next will be my daily medicine to keep it in check. Worst case, and I hope it doesn’t come to that today, is the emergency prescription in my clutch.

With the heavy sleep my medicine inspired, the worst of the oppressive panic and suffocating irritability has subsided.

The medicine has worked through my system, but some effects linger, leaving me with a strange disconnection from reality.

It’s there—I could reach out and brush my fingers against it—but it’s as if the real world is encased in a bubble I can’t quite penetrate.

That’s probably for the best right now.

Blips of what happened last night flit across my mind, but I push it back, back, back into the far recesses of my mind. Burying it so deep, like a body I’m trying to hide, I start to wonder if any of it was real. Maybe it was a bad dream.

The floor creaks outside my bedroom. My heart turns hard as a stone, and I hold my breath. The rasp of knuckles on wood sends terror shooting through my veins.

“Do you want some breakfast?”

Relief isn’t a word I’m accustomed to when it comes to thinking about Mace, but it’s instant, and I greedily inhale, hating the way my hands tremble as they clutch the blanket. Honestly, I’m glad he’s here because it means I’m not navigating this fucked-up situation alone.

“Cassia?” His tone makes it clear he’ll come in if I don’t respond.

My stomach turns. I’m not ready to face him yet. “Uh, sure. Breakfast sounds good.”

His footsteps fade away from the door. Pans clatter in the kitchen, each clang hitting a different part of my body, awakening my senses. That bubble is about to burst.

An alert hits my phone with a melodic ding . Scrubbing my hands over my face, I groan and grab it. There are a bunch of messages from Rose last night.

ROSE

Cassia, is everything okay?

Call me.

Remy said Mace took you home? What happened?

Mace called me. He said you had a panic attack. Are you okay?

You’re probably sleeping, but I just wanted to let you know I’m here if you need me.

And the most recent message.

I promise I won’t text you a million times, but please tell me you’re safe.

CASSIA

Hey.

Sorry, I fell asleep, but I’m up now.

Are you okay?

Sighing, I stare at her messages. I want to tell her everything, but it would be better in person, and I’m not sure I can explain now without spiraling again.

I’m okay, it’s a long story. Maybe we can meet up later?

Just tell me when and where.

I love you.

Love you too.

I send a bunch of heart emojis and flop onto my back, staring at the ceiling. My life went to shit in a matter of minutes. It never was that great, though, was it? Stop feeling sorry for yourself and get up. With a heavy exhale, I force myself out of bed and go through my morning ritual.

Brush my teeth. This is fucked. Mintiness fills the air.

Take my daily medicine. How am I supposed to marry him? The chalky taste lingers on my tongue.

Wash my face. Everything will be fine.

Layer the serums. The mafia killed someone because of what I did. Moisture sinks into my skin like the guilt staining my soul.

Take a breath, lock in the remorse.

I run the brush through my hair. Burying it. A tangle snags and my scalp lights up in pain, but it’s a better feeling than the ones threatening to take me under.

I avoid glancing at myself in the mirror.

I can’t bring myself to apply my usual eyeliner and mascara.

I won’t be able to look at my face without remembering everything that’s happened.

The harder I work to repress the memories, the more numbness trickles through me, the raging storm turning eerily calm.

It’s not healthy, but it’s what I have to do to survive the day.

I tug on a pair of leggings and a long, loose T-shirt that hangs off one shoulder.

Bracing my hand on the doorknob, I take a fortifying breath before pushing into the greater part of my apartment. Normally, I love my open-concept loft, but Mace having a direct line of sight is annoying, especially when he’s not wearing a shirt.

Every inch of his tattooed torso is exposed, the sunlight streaming through the windows highlighting his perfect physique.

Mace’s attention smooths over me and my skin prickles in response.

A scowl cuts across my face. I head to the island, grasping on to the irritation like a lifeline.

He frowns into the eggs he’s whisking and doesn’t bother to say hello.

Maybe he knows I’m considering grabbing the chef’s knife that’s lying on the bamboo cutting board and stabbing him with it.

The eggs sizzle as they hit the hot pan with chunks of cooked sausage and sauteed onions and garlic.

“If we’re going to convince everyone we’re married, we’ll need to go shopping for a ring today.”

“How romantic,” I deadpan.

His gaze shoots to me, then flits away. “You’re in a bad mood.”

“And you’re so observant,” I say, voice saccharine.

He works the eggs like someone who’s had years of practice. I never in a million years would have pictured Mace making his own food. He’s probably had personal chefs his entire life. Why would he waste time learning to cook when he could be using his money to dominate the world?

I glare at him as he fixes up two plates. Fresh fruit. Toast. The scramble. A perfect morning meal. I appreciate the food, but I’m still furious about the impossible circumstances. Helpless, knowing he’s my only lifeline.

Mace spreads butter on the toast, and my mind seizes on the fact that he’s far too comfortable going through my things. Anger is the easiest emotion to embrace.

“Who said you could use my bread?”

Giving me a look, Mace grabs a plate and a fork and walks toward me.

I cross my arms, hoping he can feel the hate pressing around him like the heat from a sauna.

He places my breakfast on the counter and steps in front of me, crossing his arms, covering part of the open maw of a grayscale skull on his chest. He’s so tall, I have to crane my neck. Sometimes I hate being short.

“Do you want to fight?”

I scowl. “What?”

“You heard me. Are you trying to pick a fight?”

Yes. No. Maybe. The lines on my face deepen. “And what if I said yes?”

Narrowing his eyes, he places his palms on either side of me, caging me in and leaning down until we’re at eye level.

“If it’s a fight you want, I’ll give it to you, but if I win”—he pauses and searches my face, a slow and wicked smirk cutting across his handsome face—“if I win, I get to do whatever I want to you.”

“Fuck you,” I fire back.

“You will.”

Like hell. “In your dreams.”

His lips twitch. “You have.”

“Argh!” I push at his chest, but he grabs my wrists and tugs me against his body. “You’re not as funny as you think you are,” I growl.

“Stop. You’re making me blush.” He skims his mouth over mine, and the shock of his lips steals the fight right out of me. With a grin, he releases me. “We’ll eat, then go find a ring.” Mace grabs his plate and takes a seat at the table without another word or look in my direction.

After the bickering, the loss of his voice is harsh enough to suck the air from my lungs.

Dead air that’s louder than being surrounded by thousands of people talking crawls over my skin.

Burrows into my marrow. Brings up memories I want buried.

Gooseflesh ripples down my spine, and my throat goes dry.

Too quiet, too quiet, too quiet.

I grab my plate and head to my desk, pulling on my headphones and blaring my favorite song on repeat, trying to drown out the cacophony of silence that’s been haunting me for years.

Fuck Mace.

The ride to the jewelry store was stifling, and I’m more than ready to escape his Range Rover as soon as he parks.

Neither of us speaks as we get out and head to the parking garage elevator.

The line that’s lodged above Mace’s nose burrows deep into his skin.

I don’t know what his problem is. I’m the one being forced into a marriage.

A group of businesspeople appear right as the doors to the lift glide open.

Mace and I enter first, and they follow, piling in and filling the carriage with the scent of stale coffee, long hours, and not enough pay.

I wrinkle my nose and try not to breathe.

A man in a suit bumps into me and doesn’t seem to care.

Annoyance shoots through me. As a general rule, I don’t like people, especially strangers who have no sense of common decency .

Mace’s hand finds my hip and draws me close until we’re only centimeters apart, inadvertently protecting the guy from the reprimand on the tip of my tongue.

I don’t feel as trapped with the extra space.

Warmth seeps from the pads of Mace’s fingers, which are curled at my hip bone, and the heat spreads through my stomach as his vetiver cologne coils around me.

I take a deep breath. At least he smells good.

As his thumb strokes over my side, I stiffen, tipping my head up to give him a warning look, but his attention is focused straight ahead.

Unaffected.

I hate that he has the power to unsettle me with a simple touch.

That the rest of my life might be subject to his will.

He glances at me, gaze tracing over my features.

I’m not dumb. I know that he’s attracted to me; he’s made it more than obvious plenty of times before.

Maybe I’m not as powerless as I thought.

The feminist in me weeps at the thought of using my looks to get my way, but a woman has to do what a woman has to do.