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If my thoughts were chaos, she was my anchor. They always went back to her.
Twin flames of resentment and frustration burned in my chest. I was weak for Stella Alonso, and I hated it.
“Touch Stella again, and you’ll no longer have a fiancée.” I slammed the door in his face. Dante was my first client and an old friend. I didn’t provoke him often. But like I said, I didn’t like people touching what was mine.
“Careful, Stella.” His low warning pulsed between my legs. “I’m not the gentleman you think I am.”
Green eyes. Green dress. Symbolic of life and nature. Green. Apparently it was my new favorite fucking color.
“Because I don’t want to be jailed for murder if anyone touches a hair on your head.”
Some photos were worth a thousand words. This photo said only one. Mine.
“If you saw yourself the way other people see you,” he said quietly, “you’d never doubt again.” Curiosity and something infinitely sweeter and more dangerous fluttered to life in my heart. “How do other people see me?” Christian’s eyes didn’t leave mine. “Like you’re the most beautiful, most remarkable thing they’ve ever seen.”
“It’s because you haven’t looked me in the eye since New York. Because you’re all I can fucking think about no matter where I am or who I’m with, and the thought of you hurt or upset makes me want to raze this city to the ground.” Soft, almost desperate viciousness coated his voice. “I’ve never wanted someone more, and I’ve never hated myself more for it.”
“I want to make a few things clear.” Christian’s lips brushed mine with each word. “Touch another man, he dies. Let another man touch you, he dies. Tell me I can’t touch you…” His grip tightened on the back of my neck as his voice dropped. “And I will fucking die.”
