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“When your man stabs you in the back, don’t just walk away with your dignity. Strike back with a meat tenderizer to the balls.”
When a man steps out of death row for a murder he didn’t commit, the first thing he wants to do is kill a motherfucker.
My breath hitches. Does this man want to give me a stroke?
“Stop making people feel inferior, and we’re even,” I say. “Of course, miss,” he rasps. Roman flicks his head toward the door. “Crawl the fuck out.”
Emberly is mine, and no one will ever take her away.
“You’re my obsession. Everything I learn about you is a revelation. Making you happy is an addiction I never want to lose.”
Roman reaches to the corners of the bed and pulls out some white rope. “Where did you get those?” I ask. “They were tucked into the sheets,” he murmurs. “You never know when you have to tie up a brat.”
Holding my breath, I send out a prayer to every saint, sinner, and supernatural being that she’s too distracted to pull out the sheet of paper and realize she’s about to sign a marriage certificate.
When I told Emberly I loved her, it was a lie. Love can’t describe the depth of my longing, the ache of my obsession. If I had to choose between Emberly or breathing, I would rip out my lungs and burn them for her as an offering.
“Boss?” Gil says from the other room. “Where are you going?” “To get my goddam wife,” I snap.
My conscience twangs. Is it gaslighting if a man buys a bulky piece of furniture for a woman that’s too heavy for her to assemble alone?
“And I still stand by the offer to take care of all your needs.” With a laugh, she offers me her hand. “You wish.” Actually, I do. If she wants soup in the middle of the night, I’ll be there. A foot rub, call me Mr. Masseur. An orgasm, she can use any part of my body she wants to relieve her tension.
He’s become my own pregnancy butler—always ready to offer a snack, a massage, or a hug. But today is different. Today marks one week past my due date, and frustration builds inside me like a pressure cooker. My patience is about to snap, even though Roman continues his routine with unwavering determination.
“I don’t get on my knees for anyone,” he says, his voice dark and rich. “But for you, I’d descend into the depths of hell.”
