Angelo Visconti doesn’t have the right to be so angry. His gaze falls to my mouth again, and suddenly, it softens. With his other hand, he runs a gentle thumb over my bottom lip, and I feel it in the bundle of nerve endings between my thighs. “He did this to you,” he murmurs, more to himself than me. “Why didn’t you tell me, Rory?” “Would it have made a difference?” I whisper. “Would it have made you stay?”
