The Kiss Thief

I closed my eyes, trying to muster the mental strength to walk out of this room and face my parents. Everything was such a mess.

I am an unwanted puppy, running from door to door in the pouring rain, looking for shelter.

Slowly, and despite my better judgment, I crawled into my future husband’s lap. I knew that by doing that, I was raising a white flag. Surrendering to him. Seeking his protection, both from my father and from my own internal turmoil. I flew directly into my cage, asking him to lock me inside. Because the beautiful lie was far more desirable than the awful truth. The cage was warm and safe. No harm could find me. I wrapped my arms around his neck, burying my head in his steel chest and holding my breath to prevent the next sob.

He stiffened, his body rigid with our sudden proximity.

I thought about what Ms. Sterling said about killing him with kindness. Defeating him with love.

Break. Crack. Feel me. Accept me.

I felt his arms slowly enveloping my body as he acknowledged my surrender, opened the gates, and let my army skulk into his kingdom, wounded and famished. He lowered his head and cupped both my cheeks, tilting my head up. Our eyes locked. We were so close, I could see the unique, silvery shade of his irises. Pale and frightening like the planet Mercury, with icy, blue speckles inside the craters. I knew instantly that there was a chink in his indifferent mask, and that it was my job to worm my way through the crack and plant my seeds there. Grow them like my vegetable garden and hope like hell they could bloom.

He tipped his head forward, molding our mouths together, our lips meeting like they already knew each other. I realized—and not to my discomfort—that they did. It was a discreet, bolstering kiss. For long minutes, we explored each other with cautious strokes. The only audible noise was our lips and tongue, licking wounds more than skin-deep. When we disconnected, my heart twisted in my chest. I was afraid he was going to leave the room angrily like he did the last time we’d kissed. But he just brushed his thumb over my cheek and scanned my face with a dark frown.

“Have you had enough of your father for the week, Nem?”

I took a shuddering breath. “I think I’ve had my fill for the year.”

“Good. Because I’m beginning to think I haven’t had enough of my fiancée, and I’d like to rectify that.”

During the drive back home, Wolfe slid his fingers through mine, clasping my palm and pressing it down on his muscular thigh. I looked out the window, the small smile on my lips a telltale I chose to ignore. After we left my parents’ piano room, my mother apologized profusely for the disastrous dinner. My father was nowhere in sight; his driver pulled up to the curb while she was making excuses, and he probably went someplace where he could plot against my future husband. Not that said fiancé looked particularly bothered by the situation.

I hugged Mama and told her that I loved her. I meant it even though I recognized that my entire perception of her had changed. Growing up, I truly believed that my mother could protect me from anything. Even death. I did not think so anymore. In fact, a small, frightened part of me speculated that the day where I’d have to protect her was near. I vowed to never do this to my own child.

When I had a daughter, I would protect her from anyone, even from her father.

Even from our legacy.

Even from wooden boxes with decades of tradition.

Wolfe helped me into my casual wool jacket and pierced my mother with a look she didn’t deserve.

Now, in the vehicle, his hand covering mine, he dragged my palm deeper into his inner thigh, much too near to his groin. My own thighs clenched together, but I didn’t pull back. There was one thing I could neither deny, nor did I care to at this point: my future husband stirred a physical reaction in me.

With Angelo, I felt warm and fuzzy. Under a rich blanket of security. With Wolfe, I felt as if I was on fire. As though he could end me at any given moment, and all I could do was hope for his mercy. I felt safe, but not secure. Desired, but unwanted. Admired, but unloved.

When we got to the house, Ms. Sterling was sitting in the kitchen, reading a historical romance. I walked in to get a glass of water, with Wolfe following me. As soon as her eyes snapped up from the yellowed pages, she angled her reading glasses down the bridge of her nose and grinned.

“How was your evening?” She batted her lashes, feigning innocence. “Pleasant, I take it?”