Page 40 of His Little Angel

Enzo

Idon’t know who the hell Mila thinks she’s dealing with these days. She’s bitchy. Snapping at me for breathing wrong. And somehow that only makes me want her more—want to grab her face, force her to look at me, remind her who she belongs to. She’s perfect like this. Perfect when she’s soft, perfect when she’s pissed, perfect when she’s tearing into me with that little tongue of hers like she wants to make me bleed.

I know exactly what she’s doing. She’s giving me a taste of what I did to her. I told her with every touch, every stare, and every damn breath that she was mine… and then I pushed her away with my words. Constantly. So now she’s pushing back. She’s testing me. Seeing if I’ll fold, if I’ll run, if I’ll prove every fear she ever had about me.

But she doesn’t get it— I can’t go anywhere. If I leave her for too long, it feels like something is scraping at the insides of my ribs. Like I’m being hollowed out. And it isn’t the curse. It’s her. It’s always been her.

I buried it before. Because I was afraid. The thought of loving someone more than they love me? The thought of obsessing like this while she felt… nothing? It made me sick.

But I should’ve known better. No one on this earth is capable of loving Mila the way I do. No one can match this thing in me—this need that gnaws and claws and burns. And I’d kill anyone who tries.

Lucian was right—either I stop being a coward, or someone else gets their hands on her. Not fucking happening. Not in this lifetime or any other.

So here I am. Standing at her door with a bouquet so big I doubt she can lift it. If I could’ve carried a garden, I would’ve.

I spent all day at work counting minutes like a lunatic. I never realized work only felt tolerable because she was there. Now it’s torture. I can’t concentrate. I can’t sit still. I want her. Need her.

Veronica’s been good—Mila trained her well. But she isn’t Mila. No one will ever be Mila. I barely remember her name most days.

And Mila refuses to come back to her position. “It’s Veronica’s now,” she said. Bullshit. Everything in that office was tailored for her. I told her Veronica wouldn’t be jobless—I’d find her another role. She still refused. Apparently, working with me now is “wrong.”

I miss her handing me my coffee. Miss those looks we exchanged that said everything without a single word. Miss seeing her every damn day.

So now I drag myself to her apartment at the crack of dawn and drink coffee there instead. Some days I wake her up at six just to talk to her before my day. It’s selfish. I make up for it by eating her pussy until she can’t remember her name.

The taste of her pussy and coffee on my tongue has done more for my mood than therapy ever could.

She opens the door wearing nothing but a T-shirt—my T-shirt—and a towel twisted in her hair. Her nails are freshly painted red, not chipped like yesterday. Her glasses are missing, leaving her big hazel eyes bare.

She’s… fuck. She’s mine.

The kind of mine that makes my chest hurt. The kind of mine that has me thinking about ripping the door off its hinges just so nothing ever separates us again. No one else gets to see her like this. Soft. Barefaced. Fresh out of the shower, smelling like heat and vanilla. No one else gets this version of her. Only me.

No one can protect her like I can. No one can spoil her like I can. No one can ruin her the way she deserves to be ruined—by my mouth, my hands, my cock.

I’m hers. Completely. Pathetically. Violently. And she’s mine in every way that matters. The second her eyes land on thebouquet, her whole face softens— for half a second. Then she slams the reaction down so fast it’s almost funny.

She crosses her arms. “What, you robbed a funeral home?”

“You gonna let me in, or you wanna keep being mean to me in the hallway?”

She rolls her eyes but steps aside. The moment I walk in, the smell of coffee hits me. There are two cups waiting on the counter. She made it before she even knew I was coming.

My chest squeezes.

She sees me notice. “Don’t read into it.”

“Sure,” I murmur, walking past her to pick up the mug.

“Shut up,” she mutters, grabbing her own cup like she wants to throw it at my head.

“Long day?” I ask.

“You don’t get to do small talk with me.”

“Why not?”

“Because all I’m used to is orders from you.”