Page 32 of Filthy Little Regrets (Princes of NYC #2)

twenty-one

MACE

We see Mom and my sisters off. They have suitcases full of clothes. The penthouse I’m sending them to, the one Dad has no awareness of, should have everything they need, and if not, they can order it.

Their departure is anticlimactic. Thank fuck. Dad is drowning in a bottle in the den. Alone in his kingdom. The thing he never understood is, power means nothing if you don’t have people to share it with.

Elliot’s taillights disappear down the long driveway.

I didn’t trust Dad’s personal chauffeur to keep their location a secret.

One call from Dad might have them right back where I don’t want them.

In the city, they’ll be safe. For now. Mom agreed to go, and I’ve never been more surprised or relieved.

Cassia turns to face me, gaze inquisitive.

“Sorry that was terrible,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck.

“Is it always like that?”

“Only when he’s mad,” I admit .

“So, often?”

I look away. “Welcome to the family.” Cassia deserves better than this.

“The holidays are going to be great,” she drawls.

The edges of my mouth twitch. “We’re not invited.”

My gaze jumps to meet hers. There were two ways the conversation between us could have gone.

She could have pried into the trauma that was blatantly on display, forcing a discussion I’m not ready to have, or this, a continuation of where we left off.

I braced for the former and hoped for the latter.

Cassia’s lips tug down. “I’m devastated.” The sarcasm is thick.

Relief courses through me. “It’s a tragedy, really.” We can make our own memories.

“I never thought I’d say this,” she confesses, moving close. “Please take me home.”

Chuckling, I drop my arm around her shoulder, refusing to pass up an opportunity to have my hands on her, and to my surprise, she doesn’t push me away. We stroll across the expanse of lawn between the main house and mine, an easy, mindless banter filling the minutes.

We arrive at the house, and I break away, jogging up the steps to open the door for her.

She smooths her dress, walking up the steps, hips swaying back and forth in a way that has the blood rushing from my head to my cock. “I’m fully capable of opening a door.”

“That doesn’t mean you should have to do it.” I grab her hand and pull her toward me, and again, to my surprise, she lets me. “I’m your husband. Let me be chivalrous.” Let me treat you the way you deserve to be treated.

“You take your duties so seriously,” she murmurs .

She has yet to call me her husband, but when she does, hearing her say that word will be the sweetest victory.

I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, reveling in her slight inhalation as my fingers coast along her jawline.

“You’re mine, of course I take it seriously.

” Stealing a kiss, I press my mouth to hers, teasing my tongue along her delectable lips and pulling away before she can shove me away. I release her and head into the house.

Her attention roves over me in a wave of heat. “Mace,” she says, a tiny growl in her voice. “You can’t keep doing that.”

“Why not?” I walk into the foyer, turning to watch her storm toward me, stopping a few feet away and dropping her hands to her hips. “God, you look fucking delectable in that dress.”

A flush crawls up her neck. “Stop it.”

“No.”

“I’m beginning to think you get off on fighting with me,” she says, crossing her arms and narrowing her eyes.

“It took you this long to figure that out?” I ask with a shit-eating grin.

I get off on everything but her sadness. She hides it, like I hide my past, and it kills me that we share one truth. The world isn’t a kind place. It’s cruel and terrible, it’ll chew you up and spit you out and use your bones as a toothpick. There’s no purpose to any of this, not really.

But those are the types of things neither of us needs to say out loud.

She rolls her eyes. “You’re demented.”

“Maybe.”

Her stomach growls. She bites her lip and glances away.

“You’re hungry.”

“The portions were tiny,” she says, tone defensive .

I don’t like that she feels the need to justify herself. At some point, I’ll need the name of the asshole who made her feel bad about herself. “I’m starving,” I admit.

She focuses on me. “Oh?”

I nod. “Let’s go find something to eat.”

She bites back a smile. My wife isn’t ready to give them to me freely. Soon, though. I grab her hand, ignoring her protest, and lead her to a barstool at the island. “Sit.”

“Woof.”

Laughing, I run my thumb over the bottom of my lip, picturing her crawling toward me on all fours. She must see the intention in my gaze because she clears her throat.

“Wine?” she asks.

“Red?”

“Obviously.”

Nodding, I slip into the pantry, grab one of a hundred bottles of Slingshot—her favorite wine—and set it on the island.

Her eyebrows jump in surprise. “How did you?—”

“I know a lot,” I say with a grin.

She squints at me, but lets my obvious stalking go and changes the subject. “I never understood why rich people have such fancy kitchens if they can’t even be bothered to cook,” she says, her attention on the room while she avoids my gaze.

I pop the cork out of the bottle. “Who says I don’t cook?”

She scoffs. “You expect me to believe a bachelor like you knows how?”

Filling up both glasses with deep burgundy wine, I shrug. “I already told you I know how.”

“I thought you were lying.” She takes the goblet I offer her. “Fine. Prove it. ”

“What do you want to eat?”

“Whatever you can make.” She tips her head and narrows her eyes. “Well, whatever you can make, as long as it’s not air on a plate.”

“Not impressed by dinner?”

“Who knew you could have a four-course meal and leave starving?”

I smirk. “I can make the best grilled cheese you’ve ever had.”

She takes a sip of her wine and hums. “Have you been stalking me?”

That’s too light of a term. Obsessing might be better. With a shrug, I say, “Grilled cheese is a crowd pleaser.”

Considering me over the rim of her glass, Cassia takes another sip and slides off the barstool, coming around the counter. “I have high standards when it comes to grilled cheese.”

As if I don’t know that or that her mimi’s grilled cheese was her favorite.

I spent far too long scrolling through her social media, and one recurring theme when it came to time she spent with Mimi was the grilled cheese.

More than simple white bread, American cheese, and butter, Mimi used a fresh loaf of whole grain bakery bread and white cheese.

Sometimes Cassia’s picture had a tomato bisque with the sandwich, but I don’t have time to whip that up.

I hope my recreating a favorite of hers is good enough.

“Prepared to be amazed.” After picking up my wineglass and taking a big drink, I grab the bread, aged white cheddar, muenster cheese, and butter from the fridge and set it on the counter.

I don’t know the exact cheese Mimi used, but so far, muenster and aged white cheddar have gone well together.

I can always refine it based on Cassia’s reaction.

Cassia hops onto the island next to the stovetop, crossing her legs on the marble countertop, that slit parts, revealing tantalizing skin. “You know making grilled cheese doesn’t count as cooking, right?”

I drop the items next to her and place my hands on either side of her hips, leaning into her space until we’re inches apart. “Should I put it all back?”

“No, no. I was just talking shit, but since you’re making it, I guess I should probably stop,” she says quickly, chewing on her bottom lip and searching my face. Her stomach growls. Eyes wide, she slaps her hands over it and looks away, cheeks turning scarlet.

“I should fire that chef,” I say, brow furrowing as I abandon being close in favor of making her food.

“What would Darius say?”

“Fuck Darius,” I mutter, thinly slicing enough cheese for two sandwiches.

“So...I guess I don’t need to ask if you guys get along.”

I set the knife down and shoot her a look. “Have you ever heard the saying you can’t choose your family ?”

She nods.

Untwisting the tie around the loaf of bread, I tug it out and set it on the cutting board next, placing the knife on the surface. “Well, that’s true for my dad.”

Twisting her lips to the side, she watches me work. “Apparently, I’m supposed to get to work making babies?”

Pausing, I glance at her. “Only if you want.”

Her eyebrows lift. “You do?”

More than you fucking know, Wife . I already wish she was pregnant, but I’m not trying to make her hate me. I’m here for the long game. Cassia will love me, and if she allows, we can get to work on the baby part. “I didn’t. ”

“Didn’t,” she says, fiddling with her wineglass. “What changed?”

I lick my lips and hold her gaze, making it as obvious as I can.

“Oh,” she murmurs, glancing away. “Why didn’t you want to before?”

“Because of Darius.” Admitting it aloud brings up ugly memories from the past. They threaten to take over.

Heavy fists. Kicks to the ribs. Screams that haunt my nightmares.

The roar of the rich and famous outside the ring.

The numbing realization that losing meant my sisters were in danger, making me desperate to win.

Fighting for survival. Phantom aches of pain roll through my body, and my ribs threaten to tear apart.

A soft hand on my arm rips me out of my mind and back into the present. Cassia’s amber and vanilla scent invades my senses, soothing the phantom ache in my ribs. “Mace?” Those icy blue eyes see into the depths of my soul.

My breath freezes in my lungs, but I don’t look away from her inquisitive gaze, even though I’m worried she’ll see the hollow pit inside of me and run screaming. She holds me enraptured, searching, and as if she’s scouring through that same memory, her eyes narrow. “Fuck your parents,” she murmurs.

“Fuck my Dad,” I correct.

She shakes her head in disagreement but doesn’t elaborate.

I’ve never considered if I should be upset with my mom.

She was as stuck as I was. She did her best, but how could she stop him from dragging me to the cage fights?

Should she have done more, though? I swat the thought away. I don’t like being mad at my mom.

“Your dad kind of sucks,” she says.

That’s the fucking truth. I chuckle. Cassia’s lips curve into that cute grin I crave more than coffee, and she steps closer, invading my space and filling it with her intoxicating scents.

The laughter dies in my throat as her attention drops to my lips.

A line forms between her eyebrows, and she flits her gaze back up to meet mine.

“Mace?”

“Yeah?”

“What did he—” She pauses, face wrinkling as she shakes her head. “I’m still hungry,” she says instead of whatever she wanted to ask.

And because I’m not ready to share that darkness with her just yet, I let the almost question slide as she moves back to her spot on the counter. Setting a pan on the stove and turning on the burner, I smooth a generous pat of butter on both pieces of the bread while Cassia watches me.

“How did you learn to cook?” she asks as I compose the sandwiches.

“Trial and error,” I confess. Chef only comes a few times a week, and I like to know how to take care of myself. Eating and enjoying the food were two distinctly different things, and I worked hard to accomplish the second.

She watches me place each sandwich in the pan, and I don’t hate the attention. “Do you cook?”

“Mimi taught me. Dad was terrible in the kitchen,” she says with a laugh, shaking her head at the thought. “But it’s kind of hard to cook for one person.”

“You can make me food anytime,” I offer.

She rolls her eyes. “Nice try.”

I run my fingers over her thigh as I pass on my way to grab plates.

It’s impossible to miss her quick inhalation.

I’ve noticed how much she craves being touched, even if she won’t admit it, and I try to give her as much as reasonably appropriate, given that she still hates me.

Placing the dishes on the counter, I flip the sandwiches, eyeing Cassia while the next side toasts.

“There’s more wine if you want it.”

She grins and hops off the counter, grabbing the bottle and refilling her cup. “I used to hate you.”

“You’ve mentioned it a time or two.”

“But,” she says with a heavy sigh, “I’m not sure I can hate anyone who makes me grilled cheese.”

“Well, at least my plan is working.” I scoop the sandwiches out of the pan, plopping one onto each plate.

The gooey cheese clings to the knife as I slice them into triangles.

I set the knife down and grab one plate, heading to where Cassia is resting her hip against the counter.

“You’ll love me soon enough,” I say as I hand her the sandwich.

“God, you’re full of yourself.”

I tip my head. “I like to think of myself as confident.”

“Relentless,” she counters.

“Determined.” I pointedly look at the food. “Eat.”

“Demanding too,” she mutters, grudgingly grabbing a triangle, her gaze thoughtful as she brings it to her lips and takes a bite. Her eyes widen as she chews and takes another bite.

“Good?”

Hesitantly, she nods. “Almost perfect,” she whispers.

Close enough.