Page 9 of Filthy Little Regrets (Princes of NYC #2)

“Are you going to kill me?” The question comes out of me in a spike of panic.

He stiffens. “I’m going to do what I can to protect you.”

Well, that’s comforting .

The backs of my eyes burn. “So what, I’m supposed to marry you?” It’s not a death sentence, but it may as well be. I don’t even like him. How am I supposed to agree to through sickness and in health ?

“You don’t have a choice if you want to live.” He says it as if he’s giving me a choice, but there’s not much of a choice when saying no means staring down the barrel of a gun.

Helplessness pours through my veins. Digging my nails into his forearm, I drop my head against the wall and stare at the ceiling as desolation hollows my chest. “I can’t believe you’re working with the mafia.”

“Cassia,” he says, fingers flexing on my throat. “Please use your beautiful brain. Do you think I had a choice?”

My gaze flies to his. “Did you tell them Luca was working with Moro...Morozov?” The real question is, are you the reason he died? I should know what type of man I’m marrying. He doesn’t answer. Maybe he can’t. I still don’t understand why he saved me.

“Luca was working with Morozov. Understood?”

Meaning, catch the fuck up, Cassia! I lied to the head of the mafia to save your life. Swallowing, I nod.

“You should be more careful,” Mace says.

“Yeah, well, I’m fucking terrified.” Pretty sure I won’t be on the darknet anytime soon. The dark threads of his irises seem to grow. Mace could have handed me over. My gut churns. Why didn’t he tell them it was me?

“The mafia is no joke.”

“This is a great pep talk,” I say, desperately trying to fight the anxiety clawing through me. Sarcasm will only work for so long, though.

He lifts a shoulder. “It’s not meant to be one. This is who I’m”—he pauses and scowls—“who we’re dealing with.”

I don’t want to marry him. “Can’t you tell him we called off the wedding?”

He gives me a look.

Heaving out a breath, I mutter, “Great. Will you let me down?”

Releasing me, he takes a small step back.

The distance is a canyon yawning between us.

Without him trapping me, the reality of the situation sharpens and stabs my chest, penetrating through the wall I had raised to block out the panic.

I spiral down into the chaotic mess inside my head, diving into a million bloody scenarios, horrific ends.

Bullets to the chest. Hands around my throat, strangling. A pillow shoved over my face .

Snuffing me out.

Erasing my existence.

My lungs tighten. I clutch my chest, trying to force a breath, but it’s impossible.

Mace’s gaze darkens, and the dangerous aura surrounding him blooms. “What’s happening?”

The walls close in, trapping me. I have to get out of here.

I glance toward the door, but the room widens, and the distance from where I’m still pressed against the wall and the door grows to an impossible length.

My legs are so rigid, I don’t think I can walk even if I tried.

A strangled gasp slips from my lips. I need my medicine.

I have to try. Clumsily, I take a step away from the wall, but my knees buckle.

“Fuck.” He catches me before I collapse. “Breathe,” he commands.

I fucking want to , I want to scream, but I can’t even speak.

Shallow sips of air is all I can take, and even though I know I need to relax, to breathe in, I can’t.

Oxygen tastes like poison in my lungs, bitter and potent, and my body forces out the very thing I need to live.

Black dots dance across my vision and the room wavers.

“Tell me what you need.”

“My purse,” I rasp, clinging to him. The irony of wanting to run away from him only seconds ago isn’t lost on me.

Mace helps me take a seat at the table and crouches down, gaze meeting mine as he tugs his phone out of his pocket. “I’ll text Remy.”

I know how crazy I must look, since he’s refusing to leave me alone. That, or he’s worried his new wife will run away.

He taps out a message, then glances back at me, his lips pressed into a firm line, forehead creasing.

Through the frantic breaths that have my chest heaving, I manage to say, “Disappointed . . . your wife . . . is broken?”

The dark expression that takes over confirms as much.

I want to laugh, but the pressure in my chest is too much.

My eyes flutter closed, and I try to focus on counting my breaths.

It’s impossible. Blood roars through my ears, my jagged inhales and heavy exhales reverberating throughout the room so loud that I don’t realize someone’s come in until I hear Remy’s voice.

“What happened?”

Opening my eyes, I meet Remy’s concerned gaze through the haze of tears in my eyes. My skin is so tight and hot, I want to rip it off.

“I’ll explain later.” Mace digs through my clutch, snatching an orange pill bottle I keep with me at all times.

Remy shakes his head. “Rose?—”

Mace whips around, scowling at him. “Distract her. I’ll explain later.”

There’s a weighty pause where I think Remy just might punch Mace, but the bodyguard’s attention drops to the medicine in Mace’s hands, and his frown lines deepen. “Fine. I’ll tell her you took Cassia home, but you need to call Rose and explain later.”

With that, Remy pivots and storms out.

Mace shakes out two pills into his palm and grabs the water bottle at his feet.

Remy must’ve brought it. My mind is a mess.

I don’t even know what to think as he pushes the medicine past my lips.

The pills hit my tongue, bitter notes filling my mouth.

Bile threatens to rise, but he gently presses the lip of the water bottle to my mouth and tips it.

Cool water trickles into my mouth. Mace coaxes me into swallowing, stroking my throat with his palm, helping my body do what feels impossible. My throat bobs against his hand.

“Good girl.” Mace’s brow is wrinkled, but I don’t know him well enough to understand if it’s worry or annoyance. Setting the water aside, he searches my face. “What do you need?”

Honestly, I need to go home, but I don’t want to seem even more pathetic than I already am. I don’t know how to explain what’s going on. I can’t even begin to explain that I need to bury myself under blankets and suffocate beneath the weight of them until the worst of the panic subsides.

Mace’s irises contract, something in the way he looks at me stripping me down to the bone, exposing every broken part of me. He nods in understanding, even though I never spoke aloud.

“I’ll drive,” he says, shoving the pill bottle back into my clutch. “There’s a service elevator we can take so you won’t have to see anyone.” Standing, he holds my bag and offers me his hand. The silent demand is clear. Come.

Legs trembling, I let him lead me to the service elevator, which takes us to a parking garage, and focus all my energy on counting my breaths while I wait for the medicine to work its magic.

Mace opens the passenger door to a black Range Rover.

I climb in and settle into the seat. A chill douses me, and my teeth chatter from the emotions overloading my system.

He leans into the car, buckling me in before I can do it.

His fingers graze over my chest as he straightens out a twist in the belt, gaze lifting to meet mine.

A crushing wave of embarrassment crashes over me. “I’m not that incompetent.”

“Never said you were,” he replies smoothly, stepping back and shutting the door with a soft click .

I press my lips together and dig my nails into my palms, despite the pain, desperately trying to get it together. The last thing I want is for someone to witness how much of a disaster I am. The worst thing of all is that Mace is surprisingly aware of what I need and how to handle me in this state.

I don’t like to let people see me like this.

Rose has, but I try to shield her from it.

No one should have to play caretaker. Though, when Mace gets behind the wheel and puts on one of my favorite bands, part of me is thankful I’m not alone, even though I know it’s selfish.

I shouldn’t burden other people with my instability. My anxiety is my problem. Not his.

He does something on his phone before setting it in a cupholder and pulling out of the parking spot.

My seat warms beneath me, and my eyebrows bunch together.

I didn’t see him turn on the seat warmers, but as the heat seeps into my body, I’m thankful that he did, even though it’s the middle of summer.

I lean my forehead against the cool window and pinch my eyes shut as he navigates out of the parking garage, shoving the images of the dead body and the threats that rattle through my brain into a box in the back of my mind, far out of reach.

The drive takes about thirty minutes. I’m too out of it to question how Mace knows where I live.

He snags a parking spot and helps me out of the car, carrying my clutch and hooking his arm around my middle.

I wish I didn’t need the support, but the contact is so comforting. He leads me to the building. With trembling fingers, I enter the code to let us in, taking him to the second floor and to my apartment.

As I’m unlocking the door, he releases my hand. “Perfect timing, man. Thank you. ”

I open the door and turn, registering a delivery person and the bag in Mace’s hand, but the medicine is kicking in, making everything a little hazy.

All I want to do is lie down. The guy leaves, and Mace pulls me into my loft and leads me to the kitchen.

He places the bag down and helps me into a seat.

“I hope you like street tacos and nachos. That was the fastest delivery I could get,” he explains, unpacking containers of food and spreading them out in front of me.

Savory scents, with hints of onion and cumin, hit me and my mouth waters.

“There’s al pastor, carne asada, and carnitas tacos. Do you have a bowl?”

I gesture to a cabinet, eyeing the food in a bit of a daze. He ordered me tacos? ,Why is he taking care of me?

Mace dumps a bag of chips into the bowl and peels off the lid of a container filled with queso and another of a container full of refried beans. “Do you like to dip or drizzle the queso?”

This is so strange. But the food will help, it always helps. I clear my throat. “Dip,” I say, voice cracking.

He glances at me, but I can’t get a read on what he’s thinking. “Water or tea?”

“Water.”

In a matter of seconds, a glass of ice water is in front of me. “Drink,” he demands.

I don’t even have the energy to argue. The cool water soothes my strained throat, and I sit a little straighter as he dips a chip in cheese and spoons out some refried beans on top.

He brings the food to my mouth. “Eat.”

“You don’t?—”

“Eat,” he growls, pressing the warm-cheese-covered chip to my lips .

It smells so good and perfectly melty. “Fine,” I mutter, taking a big bite and swiping my tongue across my lips. Mace pops the remainder of the chip into his mouth before preparing another. He lifts it again, and for some stupid reason, a tear tracks down my cheeks.

He stares at the tear, then brushes it away with his thumb, clutching my chin and forcing me to hold his gaze. I’ll never admit it, but every time he touches me, the part of me that craves human contact is soothed. That’s how much I’ve missed having someone to love.

“You’re okay,” he murmurs.

“Why are you doing this?”

He doesn’t respond. Instead, Mace alternates feeding me nachos and tacos until I’m full. “What’s your favorite comfort show?”

What is happening?

“ Schitt’s Creek .”

He nods and turns on my TV, starting the show right where I left off in the middle of an episode, and tips his head toward the couch. “Come on.”

“What are you doing?”

“Stop asking questions,” he says with a shake of his head.

“I’m fine, seriously. Thank you for the food, but you can go.”

He narrows his eyes. “I’m staying.” I have a feeling I might hear that a lot once we’re married. Is this my future? Him ordering me around?

A burst of frustration ripples through me. “Get out.”

“No.”

“I don’t want you here,” I snap, crossing my arms.

Mace closes the distance between us, looming over me like a storm cloud. “Too fucking bad. Sit your ass on the couch and watch Schitt’s Creek .”

“Do you know how dumb that sounds? Sorry you had to see a dead body and have your future stolen, but forget that, let’s Netflix and chill .”

“Cassia,” he says, voice severe with a reprimand. “It’s on Hulu.”

A scream lodges in my chest, but I don’t dare give him the satisfaction of letting it out. “I hate you.”

His eyes darken. “I know.”

I don’t know what to say to that. Like it or not, Mace is here, and unless I want to die, I have to marry him. An argument about folding cheese fills the silence between us.

David Rose huffs. “If you say ‘fold in’ one more time...”

Mace lifts an eyebrow. “We’re missing the best part.”

There are a few options. Kick him out and face my anxiety alone, try to argue my way out of this arrangement, or give in. Suddenly, I’m too exhausted to fight. If he’s not here to distract me, I’ll spiral until the medicine knocks me out. “Okay,” I relent.

We sit side by side, watching Schitt’s Creek .

Mace’s arm rests on the back of the cushions, his fingertips scarcely brushing my shoulder, and stupid as it is, something about it feels protective.

I glance at him a few times, waiting for him to get bored or irritated, but he’s fully absorbed in the show, content to simply watch it with me.

I settle into the couch, cocoon myself in my favorite blanket, and finally relax.

A while later, my eyelids droop. Mace hooks my arm over his shoulder and scoops up my legs, carrying me to the bed, despite my incoherent protests, tucking me under the weighted blanket and smoothing my hair away from my face .

“Sleep.”

“You can’t tell me what to do,” I mumble, staring up at him.

His lips twitch. “Go to sleep.” He pauses, then adds, “Please.”

“I hate you,” I confess for the second time, snuggling into my soft pillow. His response is lost as the medicine relaxing my body takes over and pulls me under.