Page 124 of Wounded King

"You stupid, useless figlio di puttana," he cuts in, venom drips from his voice. "Do you have any fucking idea what you've done?"

There is either silence on the other end, or I can't hear the reply.

"He called her. He. Called. Her. Violet's father got through. After everything I said—after every goddamn instruction I gave you to block every number, trace every burner, build a fucking wall between her and every ghost from that life—he called."

"I—Marcello, I don't—" I hear a stutter. I should feel sorry for the man, but I'm too fascinated by looking at my fiancée.

"Don't what? Know how? That's right. You don't. Because if you did, this wouldn't have happened. You hadonejob. One! To keep her safe. You think I give a shit if he used a satellite, magic, or smoke signals? I don't carehowhe got through. I care that hedid.

"If she's rattled, if she loses even one minute of sleep because you can't manage the basics, I swear to God, I will bury you so deep your bones will fossilize. You hearing me?" I should truly be mortified, but I'm not. Seeing Marcello in his full mafia glory, protectingme, is just… makes me feel… I don't even have the words for it. I know with one hundred percent certainty that nothing will ever happen to me with this man watching out for me, over me.

"Yes, sir."

"No more chances. Lock every channel. Strip her number from every traceable record. And if he so much asbreathesin her direction again, I want to know before he exhales. Capiche?"

"Capiche."

He hangs up, takes a deep breath, and looks at me with a mix of concern, attempting to reassure me. "He won't call you again unless you want him to."

"Marcello… " I drift off, because I don't have the words yet to explain how he just made me feel.

His brows draw together, and he moves his hand through his already ruffled hair. "I'm sorry you had to hear that. I never wanted you to see?—"

I break him off, "That was fucking hot." I breathe out.

He blinks a few times before his arrogant smirk returns to his face. "You thought that was hot?"

I nod. "Definitely."

"You are one amazing woman, you know that?" He leans in and kisses me. After a moment, I gently push him away so I can see his face.

"Nobody has ever done anything like that for me." I try to explain my emotions.

"That's on them. From now on, nobody will dare scare you; you're mine to protect, and I always will."

I'm pretty sure I'm staring at him with the same idiotic expression as the proverbial damsel in distress after the dragon was slain, but I can't help it. This man is just so much more than I ever expected. To others, he might be a criminal, a killer, a mobster, but to me, he is all those knights in shining armor and heroes combined. Even Sir Lancelot, for all his glory, was seen one way by his enemies and another by Guinevere. Not that I'm comparing Marcello to Sir Lancelot—he's far more handsome and deadly. Lancelot had a sword and a code. Marcello has an army and no mercy. But where others see danger, I see devotion. Where they see blood on his hands, I see warmth in the way those same hands hold me like I'm something breakable and precious.

He doesn't need a shining sword or a banner to announce who he is. He walks into a room, and the air shifts, people move, power hums at his heels like a well-trained beast. And yet here he is, holding me like I'm the most important thing in his world.

God help me, but I love him. I blink, trying to chase the foolish awe from my face, but it's useless. He sees it. Of course he does. His mouth curves in that devilish way that tells me he knows exactly what he's doing to me. Knows exactly how far gone I am. Without meaning to, I let the words burst from my lips. "God, I love you."

The moment they're out, I freeze. For a heartbeat, so does he. We stare at each other, frozen in time. I know it's wrong to expect him to say the words back just because I said them. Even more so because he already told me that he doesn't think he's capable of expressing them. Still, now that I practically shouted it out, there is a certain level of expectation in me. I know he won't. Not because he doesn't feel it, but because Marcello isn't a man who wields words like weapons or gifts. He wields actions. Loyalty. Blood and steel and unspoken promises. I know this, and I try to tell myself this is all I need. But I can't push away the hope that maybe…someday…

He studies me with those burning, unreadable eyes for a moment that feels like it stretches into forever. Then he leans in, so close his forehead brushes mine. His hand comes up and cups the side of my face—strong, steady, careful like always—and he whispers, voice rough with emotion he can't hide, even when he tries. "You're mine, Violet. Now and always."

It's not an answer. It's not the words I long to hear, but they're a vow. A vow heavier than three little words could ever be.

My hands lock behind his neck, the tips of our noses touch, just like our foreheads, as he leans down and I rise to my tiptoes. I don't need anything else.

Not from him.

Not ever.

I press my forehead harder against his, close my eyes, and let myself believe it—let myself feel every unspoken thing he gives me. The love he can't say but still wraps around me like armor. And then he kisses me again. It's not a careful or tentative kiss. It's everything.

Everything he doesn't say—everything he doesn't know how to say—poured into one searing, claiming kiss.

And I know, without a doubt, that I'm loved.