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Priest stood at the expensive gas stove he bought me, completely naked like it wasn’t insane, frying bacon. Just bare skin, tattoos, and that heavy dick swinging. I sat on the edge of the counter, legs swinging, pretending to sip my coffee while watching him.

I had questions—so many they crowded my throat. But I hadn’t asked. Not one. It had been almost a year since we first met, and not once had I asked him any details about his wife. And he hadn’t volunteered.

I kept them locked behind my teeth because the moment I let one slip, he might answer—and I wasn’t sure I was ready to hear the truth. But he was practically living with me now. Not that I had the right to complain when he had brought everything in this bitch—including me.

In for a penny, in for a pound of flesh. I thought, slightly bitter about it, because really, I didn’t have any right to question him .

I ended up asking anyway.

“You do this for your wife too?” I asked.

His hand paused over the pan. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t.”

He slid the food onto plates and dropped one in front of me.

We ate in silence. I wasn’t hungry, but I forced a few bites.

He finished his in five minutes. Pushed the plate aside, lit a blunt. He’d bought the weed and the Swisher Sweets too.

I couldn’t take the quiet anymore.

I laughed once. “You’ve got a whole wife, Priest. Why are you always here now?”

His jaw clenched. “You tired of me being here?” He leaned back in his chair, glaring at me.

“No, I just want to understand what we’re doing here. It’s been months since you shed up with the moving truck, and honestly, I thought you’d be gone by now.”

His eyes narrowed. For a second, he said nothing. Then he finally spoke.

“She begged for our marriage. I haven’t even fucked her in four years,” he said. “Not once.”

I swallowed but didn’ t speak.

“So what, she just lets you fuck around on her?”

“She doesn’t let me do shit,” he said. “But she doesn’t have a choice.”

I stared down at my plate.

“She’s sick,” he added. “She has some condition that makes sex painful. I didn’t know that when we married, but... it is what it is. We haven’t lived like husband and wife ever and haven’t fucked since the day after the wedding.”

I kept my eyes on my coffee. “That still doesn’t make this right.” A man fucking around on his sick wife didn’t sit right with me and he had made me an accomplice.

“I tell you she practically forced me into this fucking arrangement—and that’s your response?” he barked. “You think I wanted this? You think I stood at that altar out of love?”

He leaned closer, voice hardening. “I did what I had to do. Because some crazy bitch got attached and has a father powerful enough to make even me disappear without a trace. But you’re looking at me like I’m the villain?”

His eyes locked on mine. “You want to judge me, fine. But at least judge me for what I actually did. I’m a murderer. A thief. A liar. I’ve buried bodies, destroyed families. I’m not asking you to see me as a good man—just don’t insult me by acting like she’s the fucking victim.”

“Okay,” I said, throwing up my hands. “I’m sorry. The bitch is a diabolical bitch, sorry.”

I had more questions, but I wasn’t about to ask them and have him crash out on me.

Instead, I got up, walked over, gripped his chin and pressed kisses to his face. His cheek, jaw, lips—until the scowl disappeared, until his fingers curled around my waist and I could feel his breathing steady. Priest mean ass loved affection.

“I’m gonna buy you something,” I whispered against his mouth. “A gift.”

He arched a brow.

“A piece of lingerie. You can see me in. But... I’m buying it with your money,” I added. “You’re welcome.”

He chuckled. “You piss me off, then want to spend my money?”

I smiled and batted my eyes at him. “Yes. Il mio re,” I said, my Italian sounding terrible.

My king—those were the first words he ever taught me in Italian. He liked when I called him that while he was deep inside me.

That got a full-blown smile out of him. “Okay,” he nodded.