Chapter 50

My eyes quickly flick over Violetta’s casually mussed hair, her cute pajama set, Christian’s own t-shrit and checked pajama pants. The two of them, dressed like that, together at this hour means…

But nope. I’m not going to go there. I’m not going to think about what it means.

But it pisses me off just enough that I no longer feel bad about taking this job.

“Good morning!” I say, giving them both my sunniest smile. “And goodbye! Time for me to go off for work!”

Violetta says some really nice things to me about having a good day at work and how much she loves the muffins I made – Chrisitan or Nico must have told her – and the two of us chat in a friendly way for a second. Despite myself, I can’t bring myself to dislike her. Which kind of sucks.

Christian, however, says nothing, just glaring at me until I move towards the door with Frankie. Frankie grabs some keys and we head out, pulling the apartment door closed behind us. Just as we get to the elevator, though, the door flies open again and Christian storms out.

“Go down, Frankie,” Christian snaps, slamming the apartment door shut and sending a glare Frankie’s way even though he can’t possibly have done anything wrong. “I want a private word with Iris.”

Frankie just purses his lips at the drama but does as he’s told, pressing the button for the elevator. We all wait in awkward silence as the elevator arrives, the bell dinging as the doors open. I can’t help the smug sense of pleasure that runs through me though as I stare up into Christian’s face with my hands knotted behind my back, all innocence, like I don’t know precisely what this is about.

He doesn’t turn his eyes back to me, though, until the moment that the elevator doors close behind Frankie, taking him down to the garage.

“I’ll have you remember,” Christian says, slow and angry, “that Frankie is my man – and he is on loan to you and to my father as a favor from me.”

“Oh, I’ll take good care of him,” I say, like butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth. “Return him with…hardly any scratches.”

Christian narrows his eyes, which just makes me smile. Which just makes him even more mad.

“Quit fucking around, Iris,” he growls, taking a step closer so that he looms above me. I let him, not budging an inch. “You’re doing this against my will, and if it was anyone but my father taking you out of here I’d tie you up and toss you into your room for even thinking about defying me.”

A little something twists in my stomach at the idea, but I don’t let it show on my face.

“All of my rules still stand,” Christian continues, still glaring down at me, looming closer now. “You talk to no one unnecessarily, and nothing about your personal life. You do not do anything without Frank’s permission. You do not contact anyone outside of the bar. You go to work, you do your job, you come home. And your name is Bambi, or whatever else you want to make up to ensure that know one knows your true identity.”

My eyes get narrower and narrower as the list of demands extend.

“You don’t own me, Christian,” I seethe, shaking my head.

“Oh yes, Iris,” he replies, his voice a low hum as he reaches out and wraps a hand around my arm like an iron cuff. “Yes, I fucking do.”

My eyes go wide with rage at his declaration, but god – something about it, something about this fight, about him claiming me like that…

Heat twists low in my core, and as my eyes flick over him I have the strongest gut instinct that he…he feels precisely the same.

“What is this, Chris?” I ask, my voice hissing over my tongue, leaning into his hand instead of pulling away from it. “Do you like, get off on these kinds of orders or something? On telling girls you own them?”

“What?” he asks, balking, almost stepping back but correcting himself.

“Like what is the point of all this? I’m already going with a bodyguard, to your dad’s bar, which I’m sure is crawling with protection. You’ve already told me these rules like, a thousand times – you know I’m not going to do anything sneaky like –“

“Like take a job from my father, the mob boss?” he counters, “when I expressly told you to stay in the house, where you were safe?”

“See, there it is again,” I say, tilting my head curiously, deliberately trying to piss him off now in the same way that he’s pissed me off. “Those orders. Like is it a fetish? Does Violetta know about this?”

A muscle flicks in Christian’s jaw as he stares down at me, and honestly half of me wonders at myself as I stare back up at him. Because I’m usually so…shy. So mild-mannered. Absolutely none of me would have talked back to Steven like this, had he ever issued an order. And I certainly would never have had the guts to talk back to other male authority figures in my life, like my dad.

So, what is it about Christian that makes me feel like I can?

Honestly, do I think he’s weak?

Or is it just that I feel so safe with him that I know I can throw things in his face and he’s not going to hit me for it?

“Why’d you bring her here, Chris?” I ask, suddenly wanting desperately to know as my courage grows.

“What?” he asks, his hand loosening. He takes a step back, but I close the distance with my own step forward.

“Violetta,” I say, nodding towards the door. “She seems really nice. But why did you bring her here?”

Christian frowns. “It was time for me to get serious,” he says, frowning and crossing his arms across his chest, leaning back a little, perhaps trying for more space between us. “Family is the most important thing in my world – it’s time for me to settle down, to find someone with whom I can build an appropriate family.”

“No, Christian,” I say, cocking my head with curiosity, because…well, at first I was just trying to put him on guard. But now I really want to know. “I’m asking you – why did you bring her here? To this apartment? To meet me?”

Christian takes my meaning and stands up straight, dropping his hands to the side. Because I’m right, and he knows it. Christian – he’s secretly dated a hundred women, I’m sure, and brought none of them home to meet people. He’s probably got twelve other apartments he can bring girls to.

But this one?

He wanted me to see this one. Wanted me to see him waking up with her. Wanted me to know that they spent the night together, that they’re for real.

God, what an asshole.

“Nevermind,” I murmur, taking another step closer and staring up into his face. “I’ve figured it out.”

“There’s nothing to figure out, Iris,” Christian snarls in a rush, grabbing my arm again, pissed and pulling me closer in his rage, perhaps unintentionally. “She’s my girlfriend – she’ll make the perfect mafia wife. She knows how to move in this world, she comes from the right family, she’s beautiful –“

“Oh, she’s beautiful,” I say, moving closer now, closing that last inch of distance between us so that my body is pressed completely to his – my chest to his chest, my stomach to his, and lower, our hips… “it’s just a shame,” I continue, looking up into his gorgeous face with wide eyes, “that that’s not really what you want.”

And then I slip my hand between us, pressing it to his chest and then dragging it downwards as I step away. My eyes follow until my fingers reach his waistband, and then my hand falls away before my fingertips can brush against the front of his pants. Which are, again, making it very obvious what he really wants.

Christian swats my hand away from him, unnecessarily. I wasn’t going to touch him anyway – I’m a better stripper than that.

“Wish me luck on my first day, Chris!” I call over my shoulder with a wave as I turn away, knowing that I’ve won this one. Then I press the button to call the elevator, pleased when the doors open instantly. Frankie must have sent it back up for me.

Christian doesn’t say a word as I step into the elevator, but when I turn towards the closing doors I’m pleased to see that he’s still standing there, watching me go.

But what else is he going to do?

He can’t go back into that apartment to his girlfriend, worked up as he is.

Nope, I think to myself with a smile as the elevator doors press shut. Christian’s going to need a long moment alone in the hall to…think about what it is that he really wants. Or, perhaps expressly, to not think about it.