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Just because he's doing something for me that Bruno refused to do, doesn't mean it takes away from the fact that he's doing the same thing that his father did.
Make up your mind, Lou-Lou—my mind chastises. You're either mad that he let you go, or mad that he's keeping you.
But why do I have to choose?
I'm angry that he let me go. I'm both hurt and pissed at him for becoming what he is now, and I'm beyond livid that he's keeping me here against my will. Without an explanation.
He moves his chair closer to me but I back up.
That is until he reaches out, wraps a hand around my hip, and pulls me back to him.
“You did something different to your hair,” he says, studying my face.
I look down, ignoring the pitter-patter of my heart over him noticing that I have side bangs now.
“I got bangs,” I mumble. “Momma told me that whenever a woman decides to make a change in her life, she should mark the occasion by doing something to her hair.”
He laughs softly and I shrug. “I didn't want to change my hair too much, so I decided on bangs.”
“I like it,” he whispers, his other hand now framing my face.
I can't help but lean into his touch for a moment, because it's familiar in the very best way and there's a part of me that missed it so much.
But then I remember. “Why am I here, Ricardo?”
He exhales sharply, and for once I'm hopeful he's actually going to be honest with me, but he ignores my question and asks one of his own. “Where's Marlene?”
I want to roll my eyes at his bad attempt at changing the subject, but I look him right in his and say, “I don't know, probably still scrubbing the blood off the tiles from before. You know, after you lost your shit and shot two of your men.”
The hand on my face drops to my other hip and his fingers curl around them both possessively. “I won't apologize for that.”
His thumb slides up and he skims the tiny sliver of skin exposed above the band of my jeans. “I won't ever apologize for that.”
“Ever?” I ask tauntingly.
His grip on my hips tighten and his eyes darken. “Never.”
I should be disgusted with him. I should tell him I won't fall in love with another version of Bruno DeLuca and that I refuse to be put under another monster's spell.
But my brain short circuits when his fingers dip under my waistband and my unsaid words fall by the wayside. His touch is both soft and teasing, and his eyes are on mine, gauging my reaction.
I hiss when the pad of his thumb caresses the sensitive part of my wound and he curses under his breath. “The doctor didn't come back to see you today?”
I shake my head, unaware that a doctor had already come to see me and is scheduled to come see me.
“I'll make sure he comes by tomorrow to check out your stitches.”
“It's fine...it doesn't even hurt that much.”
“Let me see.”
Without waiting for my response, he lifts my shirt up slightly, but frowns when he realizes he can only see a portion of it due to my clothing.
I have to remind myself to breathe when he releases the button on my jeans and tugs them down slightly, almost past my hips.
I want to tell him that he pulled my jeans down much further than he needed to, but the cocky smirk on his face tells me that was his intention.
Goodness, that sexy smirk of his. I don't stand a chance against it, I never have.
Not when his hands are on me.
Especially when his hands are on me.
His touch becomes feather light as he inspects my wound, making sure to be delicate, even though he doesn't need to be.
“Looks good. Real good,” he rasps and I realize that his gaze isn't focused on my wound anymore but between my legs.
For a moment, I want to kick myself for wearing plain cotton underwear and not something sexier, but then I remind myself that's the last thought I should be having.
He clears his throat and hikes my jeans back up. He's about to redo the button but to my surprise, my hand covers his, halting him.
Despite my conscience, my body feels like a live wire when his hands are on me and after months of feeling so dead, I don't want it to stop.
Instantly, his hands are back on my hips, digging into them as I raise my shirt above my head and he drops to his knees before me.
“Fuck,” he growls against my stomach before he begins laving my navel with his tongue and sucks my belly button ring into his mouth.
“Ric—”
My voice cuts off when he stops and plants the most gentle of kisses in the center of my belly and before I know what's happening, my eyes are filling with tears as my mind conjures images of what I'll never have.
And I remember the real reason I will always hate him.
The one thing I can never forgive him for.
I'd be getting ready to be a mother right now if it wasn't for him.
And Thumper would be just about ready to come into this world to meet me...not savagely ripped from my womb because I chose him.
I make a noise in the back of my throat, a cross between a sob and a scream and I'm about to push him away, but he's already standing back up and handing me my shirt.
I quickly take it and he turns his back to me as I put it on. Neither of us say a word to one another as I walk out of his office and back to my hostage room.