I pant below his deadly blue gaze. “Yes.”
He bristles. “You won't become cold.”
“No.”
“A statue,” he mutters, and then bites out, “Dammit, Fawn. You'll play with your kitten! Blush when you touch yourself. Suck my cock to sleep. Look at the goddamn moon, and hang a dreamcatcher over our son's bed!"
I feel the tears rising, finally attuned with why he doesn’t want me tohandlehis evil. Why he keeps me at arm’s length when he’s consumed by dark dealings. He doesn’t want me to change. I am already the right woman for him. “Did you think I'd just change all of a sudden?”
“Evil can change the very fibres of us, little deer.”
“But we know evil, Sir. We know pain. Trauma. For people like us, only love can change our fibres,” I counter, holding his powerful blue gaze with my own. A smaller body in front of him. But a strong heart, a gentle touch, a submissive and a brat and his little deer. “And so much more, little deer.”
I continue, “We didn’t grow up in the cotton-wool love other children had. We didn’t have love coming and going from people who filter in and out. We didn’t have unconditional love from a mother.” I hold his pained gaze. “Our love is like acocoon,Sir. It only happens once, and the effect is irreversible.”
Months ago, I came in search of a dangerous man. I found the Devil’s prototype in a flawless dark suit. With clear-blue eyes and dark hair, an aura larger than life and a kaleidoscope of colours—I can see it today, Mum.
A man who kills brutally, fucks territorially, and hides his emotions deep within layers of smooth control. He is the Don of theCosa Nostra.Evil. Beautiful. Ruthless.
But he’s not the villain of my story.
He is my everything.
CHAPTERTHIRTY-FIVE
clay
“The police are here, Boss,”Que mentions through the closed bedroom door, and I slide my gaze across to where my sweet girl, my powerful little deer, sleepily rolls from one shoulder to the other at the sound of his interruption.
She stirs further. Her tiny white kitten—Luna—paws around the bed, swatting at the rippling sheets.
I sigh, watching Fawn’s lashes feather her cheeks, her eyes batting open in slow, sleepy waves. No creature alive has ever been more perfect for a man like me.
Resilience. Survival. Strength. Innocence, wrapped into a sweet, trim, flawless figure that reminds me that pretty things can survive even in dark worlds.
Que continues through the door, and I consider firing him for waking her. I won’t. Not today, at least. “And the press is outside. Lorna is talking to Mrs Butcher.”
Mrs Butcher.
My wife.
I look back at my reflection, blue eyes like my mother’s drilling holes through me. The eyes of blue stone from a marble statue that is unpleasant to embrace.
Sweeping the black tie around my neck, I feed it down the collar of my black shirt—I suit myself in the clothes of a grieving son. A grieving family man.
“Kudos, Satan.”
I twist to see my little deer standing, naked but for her long pearly-blonde hair that curtains parts of her pert breasts but fails to cover her pebbled nipples that thrust through the strands. I lick my lips. Her pussy, a delta between her thighs, lightly coated in pretty blonde hairs. I like her natural.
She walks into the dressing room, approaching me with a sway of confidence that resonates in my cock.
She glances quietly at the ottoman and a flush of pink creeps up the slim column of her neck.
After last night, after swallowing my evil, matching my resolve, and holding her own, I can’t imagine existing without her close to handle my evil. To blush for me. To open for me. To hold me accountable to my brothers and to her.
“What did you just say, sweet girl?”
She stops beside me and cranes her neck up, her tiny five-foot-five frame shadowed by my six-foot-five form. Her blonde brows furrow at the height difference. She glares at the length of me and makes a small humph sound. Then she walks away, returning quickly with a step.