Ruthless Saint

XXVII

MISCHA MALIKOV

There was a certain tyranny about love. Some form of tempting ugliness which was maddening and all the same inescapable.

It was a mystery to me how one could know so much about you even the fucked-up parts and still stay. And perhaps how much I wanted them to stay.

I watched her face carefully as she slept, making soft sounds and the deep line knitted between her brow. That angelic face framed by dark hair spread like a halo across the pillow.

I ran a thumb across her bottom lip, slightly parted.

My heart ached with an unknown feeling I couldn't exactly put words into. It had been happening every time she did anything remotely human.

I'd seen her talking to Dante and almost lost my head. And then when she fucking mentioned him, I couldn't see straight.

I wanted this woman—I wanted to make her fall in love with every single fucked up part of me so she could never leave me. It was a scary thought, but it was there. Blooming. Cultivating.

I wanted this woman so bad that it terrified me what I would do for her.

I ran a thumb against the diamond ring on her finger, feeling a certain fucked-up possessiveness about this woman.

I didn't want to kiss her in the beginning because I feared for the type of shit it would make me do, but it was already too late. I'd warned her and she was a fool not to heed my warning.

And now I'd fucked her and knowing how she felt bare was addicting.

I was in deeper than the Mariana trench and couldn't find my way back up. I didn't want to.

My gaze coasted over to the clock hanging off the wall. I was late—so late and behind schedule yet here I was, watching my wife sleep like a creepy bastard.

We'd fucked last night, and I was in between her legs, demanding another orgasm when she fell asleep.

I took one lasting glance at her before slipping out of bed.

Mika didn't wake up before noon on a good day, and it was just a quarter after eight.

        She wouldn't be up for another four hours, yet I couldn't resist waking her up before I left for the day.

It was tempting but I was already late and so I dragged myself towards the bathroom and took a quick shower.

Pavel drove me over to Lucky Strike that morning. My phone buzzed in my pocket just as we pulled into the driveway.

        I took one glance towards the caller ID and shook my head.

"Don't seem to know when to stop, do you?" I muttered into the phone.

He chuckled lowly, "Good morning to you too."

"Keep calling me like this, Moretti and I'll think you're fond of me or something."

"Maybe your wife."

My blood burned at the mention of her name. "You got a death wish, huh?"

"Relax." I could hear the sarcasm beneath his voice. "She's pretty but not my type."

Fuck whatever his type was then.

I rolled my eyes. I didn't even want to ask what the hell was his type. I wasn't sure I cared enough about anything concerning him to ask what women he frequented.