Page 42 of Scarred Angel

She starts to reply, but a hiss slips through, followed by a muttered curse. “Yeah,” she answers, trying to play it off.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine, just resting my leg.” The strain in her voice tells me otherwise. The amount of walking we did yesterday would leave anyone’s legs sore, let alone a still-healing fracture. But I’m not surprised she’s too stubborn to admit it.

“I’ll cook.” Silence lingers on the other end. “Valentina?”

Her laugh finally cracks through. “Wait—youcook?”

“Was I not clear?”

Her laughter softens, wrapping around me in a way I don’t deserve. And despite everything, the blood on my hands, the man drowning in the other room, I’m smiling again.

“Okay, Ruso,” she says, teasing. “I’ll let you impress me with your skills.”

“I promise you won’t be disappointed.”

“I can’t wait.”

The walk to her door is muscle memory now, which is convenient since my view is half-blocked by the five stuffed animals I won for her at the fair.

Let me win, I scoff inwardly. Maybe true, considering I was only fourteen, but I still remember how proud I was of myself. For the first time in…probably ever.

I shove the memory aside and press the doorbell. Instantly, the dogs sniff under the frame, nails clicking against the floor, followed by the deadbolt turning. When the door swings open, I nearly brace myself for the two Dobermans to bowl me over. But when I peek between a stuffed horse and dragon, they’re locked in perfect heel position on either side of Valentina. Her command, obviously.

“Whoa, I almost forgot you went that hard to impress me,” she says with a laugh, reaching for one of the prizes, but I pull back, remembering her soreness from this morning.

“Where do you want these?”

She shakes her head, already resigned to my stubbornness matching hers. “The couch is fine for now.”

I do as I’m told and drop the pile of stuffed animals on the sofa. I barely turn before her arms wind tight around me.

I’m getting used to her affection. More than that, I crave it. The way she fits so perfectly against me, like she was made to be there.

“You smell good,” she says, inhaling quickly and deeply.

“Thank you.” My thumb brushes over her cheek, grazing the dimple, and making her lashes flutter.

“Were the ingredients for dinner delivered?” I ask, forcing my focus away from her mouth.

She wets her lips, slowly, deliberately, and nods.

I’ve never felt more conflicted. Denying myself has never been one of my virtues. But with Valentina, it’s different. Wanting her feels like walking a tightrope over fire. The urge to taste the curve of her neck, to bend her over the arm of the couch and take what I shouldn’t, burns hotter with every second I stand here.

A soft whine from one of the dogs breaks the moment, and I use the distraction to ease out of her arms and move into the kitchen, where some of the groceries wait on the counter.

“How’s your leg?”

“Just a little achy. But don’t worry, my dad came by last night, and I already know I messed up.”

“Derek was here? Last night?” I ask, shoving my hands under the faucet, checking my nail beds for any trace of blood I might’ve missed. I’d dropped her off late, which means Derek came by even later. Not that he needs an excuse to see his daughter, but odd timing for small talk.

She pulls down two glasses and a bottle of red, setting them on the counter. “Yeah.” Her voice drifts, eyes downcast for a moment before she cracks a smile. “Came by to see me. And to talk…about you.”

“Me?” Interesting. “Should I ask what about, or is there some father/daughter secrecy clause I should know about?”

Valentina pours the wine, sliding a glass across the counter to me. “Drink?”