Page 37 of Watch Me Burn

AARON

T he car ride home is silent, thick with unspoken accusations and something darker I don’t want to acknowledge.

Caterina stares out the window, her profile carved in silver by passing streetlights.

I grip the steering wheel tighter, my knuckles whitening as I try to focus on the road instead of the woman beside me.

My wife.

The words I’d spoken so easily at the dinner still replay in my head. A tactical move, nothing more. A move on the board. A performance. It was all part of the plan.

So why did saying it feel like surfacing after weeks underwater?

I glance in the rearview mirror again for the third time. The way Mortelle watched us as we walked out, like he was already picking the caliber and measuring the coffin. Every headlight behind us feels like a tail. Every turn, a potential ambush.

But it’s not the threat that gets to me, it’s the way I stepped in front of her as we left. Instinct. Reflex. No thought, no strategy. Just something primal that refused to let her walk exposed.

I pull into the parking garage of my penthouse and Caterina is out of the car before I fully stop. She stalks towards the elevator with determined strides that make her dress cling to her curves in the most distracting way. I don’t know what’s up with her but God…

Not the time, Jackson.

I hang back, give her space, and we take separate elevators up. She doesn’t wait for me. Doesn’t speak. When I finally step into the penthouse, I find her in the kitchen. She grabs a bottle of wine, pours herself a drink, downs it, and immediately reaches for another.

Her back stays to me. “Is there something you’d like to talk about?”

I’m no expert in relationships. Hell, this kind of cold silence is exactly why I avoid them. Without communication, there’s no way forward, and if she’d rather stew in her anger, she can do it alone.

She ignores me completely, pouring another glass.

Jesus Christ.

Then she turns. Like a switch flipped. Fury flickering in her eyes, wild and immediate. Her fingers whiten around the glass like she’s debating whether to throw it or crush it in her hand.

“Did you enjoy your little performance tonight? Playing the devoted husband like it wasn’t the best acting of your life? Maybe you missed your true calling.”

I thought we were past this bullshit. After everything that happened tonight? Apparently not.

“You’ll have to be more specific.” I cross the room and pour myself a drink. “A lot went down tonight. Maybe focus on what actually matters instead of whatever bruised your ego.”

“I didn’t need your protection.” She slams the glass down, liquid splashing over the rim. Her voice drops an octave. “I can handle myself. I always have. Long before you ever showed up.”

I take a slow sip, let the burn settle. “What is this really about, Cat?”

She narrows her eyes. “It’s about you and that mouth of yours.”

“Didn’t seem to bother you when I used it to shut Lorenzo up.”

Her nostrils flare. “I don’t need your help.”

“I wasn’t helping you.”

“Then what was that? You pretending to be one of them, or trying to prove you’re scarier than they are?”

I glare at her, jaw tightening. “Maybe I wanted them to know exactly who you belong to now.”

The words are out before I can stop them. I don’t even know which part of me said it—the strategist trying to hold the line or the man who can’t stomach the idea of anyone else looking at her.

Her laugh is sharp and humorless. “Belong?”

She steps closer, getting into my face. “I’m not your fucking property, Aaron.”

I stare at her, disarmed. What the hell is happening? Is this all fallout from what she just learned about her father? Or am I the new target?

Steadying my breath, I decide to try one last time. “Talk to me. What’s really going on? Are you lashing out because you feel betrayed?”

Caterina rolls her eyes. “Please. Now you’re a therapist? Don’t confuse our partnership with something it’s not. We’re not friends.”

“And don’t confuse my tolerance for weakness,” I snap, slamming the bottle onto the bar. Whiskey splashes across my hand. “I shut him down because letting anyone disrespect you disrespects me.”

Her laugh is sharp. “You think any of them respect us? We’re pawns, Aaron. Disposable ones. And tonight, you played right into their hands.”

“So I should’ve let him talk to you like you’re nothing? Is that the game plan? Just smile and nod while they gut you in front of me?” My fists clench.

“I’ve handled worse without you.” Her voice rises.

“We had a plan,” I growl, stepping toward her. “And I stuck to it.”

“No, you didn’t. That wasn’t strategy. That was you showing off.”

I blink. Is that it? Is she pissed because I made it real? Because she believed it?

No, that can’t be it.

“It wasn’t an act.”

“Yes, it was. I don’t need you, Aaron.”

Her words sting deeper than I expect, frustration quickly morphing into raw anger.

“So what then? Next time someone insults my wife, I just sit there like a pathetic piece of shit?”

“I’m not your wife. Not really. And I don’t need your protection. I’m not some fucking damsel.”

“No,” I bite out, stepping closer until our bodies nearly touch, breath against breath. “You’re a goddamn nightmare, Caterina.”

Her chest heaves. Her eyes gleam—not with fear, but challenge.

“You don’t get to pick and choose when to care. Make up your mind. Either you hate me or?—”

“Or what?”

“Admit that this isn’t about respect or protection. This is about control. You can’t stand losing it, especially around me.”

Something snaps cleanly, like a bone finally giving under pressure.

My glass hits the bar with a sharp crack, and before I know what I’m doing, I’ve backed her into the bookshelf wall. One palm lands beside her head, caging her in.

“I didn’t step in because I had to. I did it because you’re mine. And nobody touches what’s mine.”

The words ring out harsher than I meant them. She freezes. Her eyes widen with shock, pupils blown wide as she stares up at me, barely breathing.

Fuck . I didn’t even mean to say it like that.

“Yours?” she says, incredulous. “Since when?”

“Since the moment your father signed your name over to me,” I bite out. “On paper. In name. In the eyes of every person we walked past tonight.”

She lets out a short, bitter laugh. “And here I thought that whole husband act was just for show.”

“It was.”

But the way I press into her says otherwise. The way I breathe her in like she’s oxygen I’ve been starved of.

She feels it too by the heat rising in her eyes.

“Then why do you sound like you’re trying to convince yourself?” Caterina challenges, tilting her chin up defiantly.

She’s daring me to prove her wrong and I’m at my wits end. I’m not sure I can walk away from her again, not this time.

I press both hands flat against the wall beside her head, closing the space between us. “You’ve rooted under my skin like a parasite,” I snap, my voice cracking with the truth I don’t want to face. “And I fucking hate it.”

“No, you don’t.”

Her defiance is quiet, lethal. And God help me because it makes me want to tear her apart just to see what’s underneath.

“Fuck you,” I grit out.

“I don’t want you,” she breathes.

But she’s lying. I can feel it in the way her chest rises, the way her body leans into mine despite everything she’s saying. She’s close enough to kiss, to bite, to break.

“Liar,” I whisper.

“You think this means something?” She shoves at my chest, but I don’t move. “You think just because you barked at Lorenzo, I’m yours now?”

“I don’t think,” I say low. “I know.”

“You’re delusional.”

“And you’re shaking.”

“I’m not?—”

My hand shoots out, seizing her wrist, dragging it between us. I press her palm flat to my chest, right over my heart.

“Then explain this,” I hiss, voice cracking with restraint. “Explain why I haven’t stopped thinking about you since the moment I met you. Why the thought of anyone else even looking at you makes me want to put a bullet in their skull.”

She swallows hard. “You don’t feel anything.”

“No?” I lean in, our foreheads almost touching. “Then why does your pulse skip every time I say your name?”

I press her hand lower, to where I’m already hard for her. “Why do you melt the second I touch you?”

She doesn’t answer.

“You want to pretend this is just strategy?” My voice is ice wrapped in heat. “Fine. Let’s pretend. But when I’m inside you again, when you’re moaning like you did in my office, don’t you dare call it fake.”

She wrenches her hand back, but I don’t give her space. “You’re mine. Not because of a name. Not because of a deal. Because there’s not a single part of you that doesn’t want me.”

And just before I kiss her, she says it.

“Then prove it.”

I don’t kiss her. I claim her.

Her lips crash into mine and it’s not soft, not careful.

It’s teeth and heat, and the kind of desperation that makes people do unforgivable things.

She stiffens at first—out of habit, maybe—but then melts into it, like her bones forgot what anger feels like.

Her fingers yank at my hair, scraping along my scalp, dragging me deeper.

This isn’t a kiss. This is a goddamn declaration.

I lift her without effort, hands gripping her thighs as I slam her back against the bookshelf. Books spill to the floor in a loud, careless avalanche, and still neither of us stops.

“I should slit your throat.” She bites my lip, her nails rip open my shirt, buttons scattering everywhere.

“Killing me isn’t what you want or need right now. It never has been, has it?” I grab her ass, lift her higher, and slide my hand beneath the slit of her dress. My fingers brush the knife strapped to her thigh. Sharp. Warm. Waiting.

Just like her.

“You’re so wet. All that rage and you’re dripping for the man you claim to hate.” I drag two fingers through her heat.

“Fuck you,” she moans, sounding desperate already. Her head falls back against the shelves as I push two fingers deep inside her.