Page 45 of His Little Angel

And that’s a real problem.

For the last few days, I’ve thrown everything at him—my attitude, my silence, my worst moods, every shitty defense mechanism I own. I’ve pushed, tested, and poked the soft spots I know he has.

He never left or snapped.

If I’m bratty, he fucks me until I forget my own name.

If I mock his gestures, he doubles them—bigger, louder, more unhinged.

If I ignore him, he pulls me into his lap and makes me talk.

I wanted to be his curse….turns out I already am.

But that doesn’t mean I’m done playing karma.

It’s almost ten. We’re still tangled in bed, warm and lazy under the covers, when I ask:

“What’s your biggest fear?”

His arm tightens around my waist instantly. “Why are you bringing that up?”

“Because I want to know what this dangerous, manly man is afraid of. Maybe he’ll seem more human than beast.”

“Mila.”

He uses his warning tone. Hisdon’t-play-with-metone. His goal is to intimidate me—but it makes me wet instead.

I turn in his arms so I can see his face. “I’m serious.”

He hates being vulnerable. Being seen. Finally, through clenched teeth, he mutters, “Heights.”

I raise an eyebrow. “That’s it?”

“Yes.”

Too quick.

I drag a finger down his muscular chest. “Try again.”

Enzo Morelli—who would make the devil blink first—looks away.

“No.”

“Enzo.”

His eyes flick back to mine, furious and reluctant. “Snakes.”

I force myself not to laugh. “Snakes? Really?”

He narrows his eyes. “That’s all.”

I don’t change the subject. I know there’s something he’s not telling me.

With a sharp hiss, he admits, “Losing you.”

He holds my gaze like he’s daring me to laugh, to mock it, to turn it into a weapon. I don’t. Instead, I divert the conversation, not wanting to make him uncomfortable after admitting something that warms my chest.

“So,” I say, “we’re going to face those fears today. Only the first two.”