Mila: The Godfather (Unholy Trinity Book 7)

MILA

“Kill them with kindness, she said. Nah, how about with a bullet?” – R

The next evening, I find myself laid back on the bean bag next to the mini bookshelf, reading the book I was halfway through before I left Detroit and got caught up in Riagan O’Sullivan’s world. The book is an enemies-to-lovers, age-gap romance with praise kink. I know, I know. I don’t seem like the type of bookworm who would enjoy the darker themes in books, but I do. In fact, I much rather read a taboo romance than your typical vanilla read. It’s not that I don’t enjoy sweet romance because I do very much, but there’s something about the anti-hero falling for his woman with all those emotional moments that I enjoy.

I am clueless when it comes to men and how their mind works, aside from what I read on the internet. I probably shouldn’t use fictional books written by women to try and understand the male brain when it comes to love and romance, but it’s a good source of distraction, and I am not ashamed of it. My books gave me unique and exciting worlds to escape to when my own was dark and scary. I got lost in the words the authors wrote for hours on end, and for the amount of time it took me to read the stories, I felt happy and safe.

But now, I am here in a world that is not my own and feels much like the ones of my books.

But it’s not fictional at all.

It’s real.

Riagan’s world.

He’s a man with his own demons that I do know. I see the same darkness in his eyes that I did in my sister’s. Both of them. I can recognize it anywhere. It should scare me, but it doesn’t. It somehow beckons me forward until all I want is to peel each and every one of his layers and find out all that he is. And then there was that kiss.

I’ve read a thousand first kiss scenes, but nothing could’ve prepared me for the moment my lips touched his. There was a current of electricity that struck me and traveled through my body, covering me in heat.

His heat.

Even now, thinking about it makes me feel warm all over. Another new reaction that only he provoked in me.

His lips were soft.

Softer than I initially thought by the looks of them. His kiss was gentle at first until I responded. That’s when he touched my neck, pulled me closer, and stole the air right out of my lungs.

It was earth-shattering.

Kissing him felt just like freedom tasted. Like basking in the sun when you’ve been cold for so long. It felt like nothing I’ve ever felt before and thought it would.

Now, my mind is in shambles.

He doesn’t want to be friends. That much I know.  Do I dare hope that he wants more?

Friends don’t kiss each other like we did, do they? No, I don’t think so. The lines are blurring, and my mind is becoming a mess when it comes to him.

I hate messes, but I’ve come to crave his sweet chaos.

When I’m right in the middle of a scene where the hero is giving the heroine cunnilingus in his office desk while holding her down and calling her his good girl, there’s a knock on the door.

Heat creeps up my neck to my cheeks.

It always does when I get to the intimate parts of a story.

Putting the book down, I pat both my cheeks lightly, trying to make the pink shade that’s most likely there disappear before I speak up. “C-come in.” I cringe when my tone comes off high-pitched. Very suspicious.

Think of something else, Mila…

My brain instantly replays my very first kiss, making me feel even more embarrassed and hot all over.

Nope, nope.

I think of things that make me gag instead.

Like, watermelons.

That does the trick.

A moment later, the person at the other side of the door is revealed. Riagan’s friend and guard is wearing low-rise jean shorts and a tropical pattern green shirt.

I’ve been so focused on his boss that I haven’t had the chance to fully get my reading on Kelly. Whose first name I learned is Cianne.

Interesting name for an interesting-looking man.

A strong Irish name like Riagan.

Like his boss, he has just as many tattoos. The only difference is where Riagan’s face is free of ink, Cianne Kelly has a few small tattoos. At first glance, he looks like any book villain with tattoos does. The kind of man I’ve read somewhere that mothers warn their daughters about.

Scary.

But that’s when he tricks you.

He is a trickster.

He has a charming personality and lots of jokes I don’t get, but I still try my best to understand and laugh at times to not come off as rude. I don’t know how much Riagan has told him about me or how I’m wired. All I do know is that he treats me no differently, and he talks to me as if he would anyone.

No pity.

He even looks me in the eye, even if it does fluster me a bit.

I am grateful he treats me as a human being and not a wall like most people did before. I still wear my hat when I am around him and most likely always will. I don’t like how my eyes can’t stay still, and I would rather not make others uncomfortable.

The only person I feel confident enough not to hide from is Riagan.

“The boss wants you to join him for dinner, milseán,” Cianne says with a small smile. His smile is nice. He has a smile that brightens up his entire face. It seems genuine.

Rising quickly from the bean bag, excited to see Riagan. I haven’t seen him since last night.

Since he kissed me.

When I woke up this morning and went downstairs for breakfast, I noticed he wasn’t anywhere to be found. Cianne informed me that he was handling business. I didn’t ask. I know what business for men like him means.

I chose to spend the morning studying the butterflies instead, still fascinated with them. He has a butterfly cage. A conservatory, to be precise.

He’s turning out to be more of a dream man than I originally thought.

The things he does and says, I’ve only read in romance books.

It feels too good to be true.

Things like this don’t happen to girls as sheltered and inexperienced as me. Do they?

A clearing of a throat reminds me that I spaced out. A bit embarrassed, I look Cianne in the eyes for a brief moment before looking down at his stubbled cheek. “Should I meet him now?” I ask.

“How about you change first, love?” Frowning, I look down at what I’m wearing. An oversized Guns and Roses shirt with mid-thigh socks and slippers. “You look adorable, but how about we don’t provoke the big man? I’m already hanging on by a thin line.”

“Provoke?” I am dumbfounded, not understanding what he means by provoking Riagan.

“The psycho will have my balls if he finds out I’ve now seen you without a top and pants. You did see his reaction back at the beach, right? The motherfucker almost drowned me at sea.” He laughs as if he enjoyed being almost drowned by Riagan.

Looking down at what I’m wearing, my brows pull low.

“Is it not proper attire?” I ask him, feeling confused. “I’ve seen girls wearing this type of shirt without pants on social media and it seems to be a thing.”

Cianne laughs, but it’s not a cruel laugh. He’s not mocking me. “I guess they do, but the boss is—”

“What?”

“Territorial as fuck. I wouldn’t be surprised if he peed on you next.” He laughs.

Scrunching up my nose. “I would rather not. Do you know how many bacteria live in urine?”

Cianne raises his hand, stopping me from continuing. “Ah, no offense, but I don’t care to share facts about body fluids.” He deadpans. “It’s gross, sweetness.”

I won’t be surprised if he pees on you next.

Shivers run through my spine just thinking about it. “Do you really think Riagan will pee on me?” Is that something men do? Is it part of their organization? I need to research this once I have access to the web.

“Mila…” I spaced out again. “I was joking.” Cianne clarifies.

Oh… I guess that makes sense.

“I’m sorry. I do not understand most jokes or sarcasm at all.” I explain.

“No worries.” His smile is mischievous. “Stick with me, kid, and we’ll remedy that real fucking quick.”

I don’t really think so.

I’ve tried for years but failed to understand humor like most people do. Humor, specifically jokes, involves cognitive capacities that are often challenging for me.

“Cianne.” I look up at his face and find him already looking at me.

“Yes, mislean?” he replies.

I play with the brim of my hat while asking. “What would be the proper attire?” It’s barely a whisper.

Making eye contact for a slight second, I notice his eyes turn soft, just like Riagan’s do at times.

“Now that I can help you with.” He claps his big hands and moves toward the walk-in closet, stepping inside. I stand there, and watch him take clothes out of the racks and throw them on the bed.

“You’re making a mess.” I blurt out, trying not to sound rude. He doesn’t seem to hear me and keeps throwing more clothes on the bed. There’s a big pile. A big messy one.

So as the muscle-tattooed criminal roams through my closet, trying to find me something to wear, I focus on fixing the mess. By arranging the clothes, he chose neat piles organized by color and fabric. All the while, I can’t ignore the feeling in my chest that’s making my heart race faster at just the thought of spending more time with Riagan.

I’m already in big trouble.

A huge one.

One that won’t be so easy to get out of.

I don’t even know if I want to.

Sweet was not an adjective I would have thought to describe men who look like the grim reaper if he were part of this century with tattoos and silver chains around his neck, but that’s the first word that comes to mind when I think of not only Riagan but now Cianne, too.

“For a man with an odd sense of fashion and a love for animal print, he managed to find something more my style instead of his,” I whisper to no one as I shut the backdoor softly behind me, stepping into the warm night.

He’s waiting for you… Cianne said.

Looking down at what I’m wearing, I feel happiness. Cianne picked a bright blue ditsy floral print cami-dress that ties at the front. He even picked the matching blue sandals I paired the dress with.

If it wasn’t obvious before, it is now. I love blue. I’m always wearing something blue, and both men have noticed. Bad men who wish to cause me harm wouldn’t take notice of the little things, would they?

I don’t think so, but I’m not an expert on men. At this rate, though, I will be once my time with them is over. I try not to think about what waits for me after this dream ends and hold on to the present. I grew up wishing the days away, and what a twist this is. I find myself trying to freeze time.

Freeze this moment.

Walking down the stone path, suddenly, I become nervous about what awaits me once I reach Riagan. Cianne said he would meet me between the garden and the glass house where the butterflies are. Gazing up at the sky, I take notice of the sun turning a dark shade of orange. It will be nighttime soon. I take in my surroundings as soon as I enter the garden. It looks extra magical today with the blinking white lights adorning the bushes and the tall palm trees. The garden looked stunning before, but nothing like it does today.

Was this what he was doing all day?

Was this the business Cianne was referring to?

I keep looking left and right with a big goofy smile on my face while my heart beats faster.

I remember watching a princess movie with Gus two years ago, where there was a fairy forest with all kinds of beautiful plants and cute little mythical creatures.

This place looks and feels just like a movie.

Magical.

Private.

Almost as if I were in a bubble.

My smile widens when I spot the small gnome wearing a cute purple hat standing next to the water fountain. Even the garden has fairy lights. “Wow…” I breathe out, taking it all in.

“There’s never been a more beautiful sight.” A voice whispers in awe, making my heart beat faster than it was moments before. Turning to where the sound came from, I spot Riagan standing tall and looking almost regal in a wild way under the lit gazebo. The pressure in my chest intensifies as I look his way. I’ve always thought of Riagan as handsome, but at this moment, while he stands in a white dress shirt with the two top buttons undone showing his neck and chest tattoos and wearing dark jeans, I can’t help but think that men like him should be illegal. He is not good for my health.

Every time I look at him my heart races abnormally, and that can’t be good.

“The setting you chose is magnificent, yes,” I say matter of fact. I swallow hard as he keeps staring at me, making heat spread to my body, starting on my cheeks.

“I was talking about you, sweetheart,” he says with a smirk.

I blush.

Of course, I do when he says things that make my stomach flip. “Cianne helped me pick this outfit,” I murmur while playing with the hem of the dress absently. I do that when I’m nervous, and at this moment, I am very nervous.

“Remind me to thank him later.” Riagan’s top lip curls in a smile.

“Why?” I ask curiously, while walking up the gazebos’ steps.

“Because you look beautiful in that dress.” He says while offering me his hand. The moment my skin makes contact with his, I feel a thousand bugs in my belly. Again.

“Oh…” Oh? Is that all you’re going to say? Think Mila. Think of a more appropriate response to his compliment on your appearance. “Thank you,” I whisper, and then quickly add. “You look beautiful too.”

“I don’t think anyone’s ever called me beautiful before.” He laughs, and I frown, wondering how it is possible that no one has ever called him beautiful before. “I’m glad you think I’m beautiful, butterfly.”

Butterfly.

Ironic that he chose that term of endearment for me. Is he aware of the thousand butterflies currently flapping their wings inside my stomach?

“Why?” Looking up at his jawline, I ask. I wonder how soft his beard feels.

“Why what, sweetheart?”

“Why are you glad that I think you’re beautiful?” Please spell it out for me. It’s hard reading him most of the time.

“I want you to like me.” I notice his expression doesn’t change. Looking down at his bearded cheek, I reply. “I already like you.”

“I want you to desire me as a man, not a friend, Mila.” His voice catches me off guard. He sounds different than before. Almost mad?

No, not mad.

Passionate.

He doesn’t look joyful, but he doesn’t look angry either.

The thing I appreciate most about Riagan is his willingness to explain his emotions and his thoughts to me when I’m unable to read him. When it’s difficult for me to do so.

Like right now and many countless times before.

I force myself to stare into his eyes, and then I realize that is a mistake because the words get stuck in my throat. All I want to say is that I can’t. I’m unable to find logic or speak the words of my heart when he looks at me like he is looking at me now. I might have very little or zero knowledge about men, but I do see the same expression on Riagan’s face in every romantic movie ever made.

Then, I think back to all the little and big things he’s done for me. The lengths he’s gone to not only put a smile on my face but to keep me safe as well, and the weird feeling in my stomach grows stronger, spreading through my body like wildfire.

I already like you more than I should. I want to say, but the words scramble in my brain like they do every time I feel anxious or out of my element, and although I seem to feel more comfortable with Riagan than most people, he still makes me feel a multitude of emotions I can’t seem to understand even if I want to.

It’s freighting.

A moment of silence passes between us, and I wonder if I made this awkward when I didn’t mean to. Did I ruin the moment? Did my silence to his confession make him think of me any differently than he did before?

I become worried and anxious.

But, like always, Riagan swoops in and breaks through my thoughts, killing any anxiety that tries to take over my mind and body when he asks. His voice, as rough as it is, is both serene and melodic.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, grabbing a loose curl and rubbing the strand between his thumb and index finger.

That’s when I noticed all he did.

The gazebo, much like the plants surrounding it, have fairy lights all around it with a picnic set up. A very soft-looking maroon blanket is placed on the floor with exactly seven pillows.

A picnic under the stars surrounded by one of my favorite things in the whole world.

Plants.

Riagan gently helps me down on the blanket and then joins me. He looks comical, sitting down next to me, being gigantic as he is. Even while sitting, he still towers over me. Our size difference won’t ever cease to amaze me.

He then starts to open containers of food, and my mouth starts to water when the delicious smells hit my nose. Which is surprising, to say the least because I’m very picky about food. I learned at a young age that I hated most smells, colors, tastes, and textures. It brought me a lot of discomfort because no one besides my sisters took me seriously when I refused to eat certain things, and, as the years passed, to save myself and my sisters from punishment, I started to eat everything that was given to me, even when it psychically made me ill. I don’t want to ruin the meal he worked so hard for. At moments like this, I wish I was less like me and more like Riagan. Carefree. Normal. Just so I didn’t have to constantly worry about what I say or don’t say, nor what I do or don’t do.

“Hope you like it.” Looking at him, I notice he almost seems nervous. Looking away from the food, I focus on him instead when a thought pops up. “Did you make all of this?” I whisper, without realizing I’m smiling wide until he reaches forward and bumps my nose with his index finger, and the smile spreads wider on my face.

Nodding, he replies. “Yeah…” He is acting weird. Does he feel shy? I recognize shyness. I’m used to that, but it can’t be. Not him. I believe he is the most confident man I know.

It’s endearing.

“You cooked for me?” I ask him in awe.

Grunting, he replies. “I did. Although, it’s nothing special.”

“If you made it. It’s special.” I look up, catching his gaze for a short second before looking down at the picnic set-up. Clearing my throat, feeling embarrassed by the silence that followed, I focus on the food instead. “Sushi?” I ask happily, when I see one of my favorite foods ever. Most people hate sushi rolls, if not for the taste than the texture. I had an issue with it at first until I tasted the delicious Japanese delicacy. I notice he placed the soy sauce next to the daikon radish.

My mouth waters when Riagan starts to open the containers, revealing more sushi rolls.

Avocado, cream cheese, and cucumber roll.

California roll.

And the one that has me itching to get a taste, so I do. Reaching forward, I grab a barbecue beef roll and pop it in my mouth.

Once the delicious taste hits my tastebuds, I can’t help but moan aloud.

I’m surprised he didn’t go the traditional route and choose the Americanized one.

Not that I am complaining.

I dislike fish.

The taste and the texture.

Does he know? Did I tell him that small fact? No, I don’t think so.

“I take it you enjoy it?” Riagan’s humorous tone snaps me out of my head. Heat creeps in when I realize I just stuck my hand and helped myself to the food without waiting for him to join me. Quirks and all, I do have manners. It’s just that sometimes my excitement takes over, and I act impulsively.

The roll smelled and looked delicious. I wanted it, so I went for it.

“Sowwy.” I say between bites, cringing when I realize I spoke with my mouth full. I keep making a fool of myself.

“Stop saying you’re sorry, sweetheart, and go ahead. Eat all you want. I like watching you eat.”

“You do?” I pick up another sushi roll. This time a California roll after finishing the other. Frowning, I shove the full roll into my mouth and frown at a smiling Riagan. “Do you have an eating fetish?” I say out of nowhere while still munching on the roll.

“Eating fetish?”

Nodding I explain. “Yes! It’s when people find pleasure in watching others stuff their faces with food. I don’t particularly enjoy watching people stuff their faces, but I don’t mind it if you do. Do not feel embarrassed.”

He laughs out loud, and I instantly feel pressure in my chest. Music to my ears. That’s what his laugh is to me. You see… Riagan is everything I am not. He is strong, loud, and brave, and oftentimes, I find him a bit petty, and I am the opposite.

“I don’t have an eating fetish, sweetheart. I like watching you enjoy something I make. That is all.”

“Me too.” I take another bite of the roll. “I liked how your face lit up when you ate my waffles. I will make you more just so I can watch you smile like that again” Swallowing my last bite, I notice he is not eating. Just watching me. Something I learned the past few days is that I like his eyes on me as much as I liked his lips on mine.

How strange yet wonderful the realization is.

“Likewise, Mila.” He grins before popping two rolls in his mouth at the same time. Riagan is huge compared to most men. It’s fitting that he eats like crazy too.

We both sit in comfortable silence as we eat, one that I have only ever experienced with him. I find myself staring at him while he looks out the gazebo toward the beach. I do that a lot lately.

I watch him while he focuses on something else.

Unashamedly, I stare at his profile. I found that Riagan doesn’t have a bad side like most people claim they do. Every side of him is raw beauty. Masculinity. Confidence.

And as much as I like his appearance, what I love most is his ability to make me feel at peace.

Riagan is serenity even in all his beautiful chaos.

I feel a feather-light touch on my hand, letting me know that I zoned out while I watched him enjoy his food. Looking down, I notice my hand is now clasped in his much larger one as he plays with my ring. The beautiful ring that symbolizes our fake engagement.

“Want to trade secrets?” Riagan says, breaking the silence first.

He wants to trade secrets?

Never let others know your secrets, stelina. They’ll use them against you as a weakness. My sister’s, Kadra, voice plays in my mind as a warning.

Riagan’s not like that.

I don’t see the darkness that surrounds most cruel men in him.

Not when it comes to me, at least.

Ignoring all logic… again. I give in.

“I’m not that interesting.” I whisper honestly. I’m really not. All the secrets I keep close to my heart tend to make people look at me as if I’m a charity case.

“I beg to differ.” I become enthralled by the way his gentle touch on my skin makes me feel a million and one things at a time. Nervous. Thrilled. Happy. Emotions I’ve yet to understand I am sure I am feeling them somehow.

That is the Riagan effect.

I also think about how he knows me better than I think I know myself, and how illogical is that? How can someone who I’ve just met know so much about me? My sister Kadra told me once that fairytales aren’t real. Romance novels are just stories.

What if she was wrong?

What if fairytales do exist? What if I am living my own?

“Friends do that?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“Fiancés do.”

Fiancé.

Thud.

Thud.

My heart.

There’s that feeling again whenever he mentions our new status. We effortlessly graduated from complete strangers to strangers with a common mission to fiancées-slash-friends.

“I wouldn’t know where to start.” I tell him truthfully, looking down at our joint hands, too nervous to look at his face.

Sharing secrets is like opening a book and letting someone else read it. It makes me feel vulnerable. And in the world I grew up in, vulnerability equates to weakness.

“Tell me something that makes you smile that no one else knows?” Riagan whispers, still holding onto my hand.

“Adding color to all that is colorless.” He says nothing, and I take it as he wants me to explain. It makes sense to me, but perhaps it won’t make sense to everyone else. “Every room in my house growing up was plain white. There was nothing in my room that had color or brought warmth to it. It felt lifeless. Empty. When I added a pop of color, it suddenly didn’t feel sad or empty. It made me smile. I paint everything I can. Colors are proven to uplift human’s emotions.”

“What else?”

I think about it for a second before replying. “I like vintage things.”

“Why is that?”

“I don’t know.” I say softly. “I guess I’ve just always been drawn to old things. Usually, old things are forgotten and tossed aside when they’re no longer useful.” I take a deep breath before continuing. “It doesn’t make sense, I am aware, but I like the feeling I get when I fix them and bring them back to life by caring for them. Loving them. Same as my plants. Caring for them makes me smile.” I look up, and my eyes clash with his for a brief second then I redirect my gaze and stare at his chest instead. I wait in silence, hoping he understands and doesn’t laugh. In my head, it makes perfect sense but others might not see it the way I do.

“It makes perfect sense, butterfly.” He then rubs my hand with his thumb tenderly. I find comfort in his touch. That’s it. That’s all it takes. He never mocks or judges me. He just…lets me be me.

“Your turn.” I smile shyly at him. I want to listen to him talk. I prefer to listen to him. “Tell me a secret.”

“I don’t like people. I find most humans to be a nuisance and a waste of air.”

A waste of air? I smile wider, enjoying his honesty. That is one of the many things I’ve come to appreciate about Riagan. He genuinely doesn’t care if he sounds rude or mean when he is unapologetically himself. Sᴇaʀ*ᴄh the (F)indNƟvᴇl.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

“But you like Cianne.” I think back to all their moments together. All I’ve witnessed, and yes, it does seem like they’re always at each other’s throats.

“I tolerate him. There’s a different, sweetheart.” He chuckles when I frown.

“Your father? You most love him to go out of your way to complete his bucket list. That’s a sweet gesture you only do for people you care about.”

There’s a moment of silence, and I wonder if I said something out of line, but then he speaks. “I love my father. I am capable of love. I just don’t enjoy being around other people unless it is necessary.” Well, I get that. My sisters are the same. Is it fate? That I found a man who thinks and, at times acts, just like my sisters. But with me, they change. They’re not cold or uncaring. Perhaps, cold people need people like me to keep them warm. I can do that for them. As long as I’m able to, I will be there when they find themselves in the dark. “What I’m getting at is that I’ve never been a huge fan of the human population. It’s exhausting having to follow their rules and social norms. It takes a toll on me to have to pretend to be someone I’m not because they’re afraid of a little dark. I guess I never quite felt like myself around others until you.”

Until me.

“I’m not afraid of the dark.” I say truthfully. Most people are terrified of what lurks in the dark, but I am not one of them. Evil has no preference. Evil hides in daylight as well.

He nods once, still holding onto my hand. “You shouldn’t fear anything ever again.” I wish it were that simple, but we’re all afraid of something. I don’t tell him that, no. Instead, I run the pad of my index finger over his four-leaf clover tattoo on his knuckle. I like that Riagan is a walking, talking coloring book with how many tattoos he has inked on his skin.

He is… unique.

“Can I ask why you sleep in the closet?”

“I do?” I frown, not really knowing what he means.

“Last night I heard whimpering coming from your room, and I found you in a fetal position sleeping on the closet’s floor.”

I do not remember that. I do have nightmares of bad memories of the past, but I don’t recall ever waking up inside a closet. Thinking about it, I hid in my childhood closet when I was a child. I spent more time there than I did anywhere else in that mansion. So, I tell him that. “My father liked to terrorize us, and I used to hide inside the closet so he wouldn’t get to me. If I wasn’t in his way. If I was invisible, he would let me be.”

“And the scars?” He asks bluntly, while I feel his fingers caressing one of the scars on my left arm. The scars are barely visible, but the skin is marred. I can feel the puckered skin, and so can he.

I take a second to think about what I’m going to say next.

I don’t want his pity, but that’s the thing about Riagan…he never treats me as if I’m made of glass. He doesn’t look at me as if I’m some broken little thing that can’t protect herself. Perhaps, he thinks so, but he never shows it.

“I told you I love adding color to colorless items. I used to do it a lot when I was younger. I found comfort in the little things, like drawing pretty pictures for my family, and I thought it was harmless. My father found me one day coloring the white walls in front of my room and lost it. He threw a glass at the floor next to me, and when it exploded, the sharp glass cut me.” I whisper and wait for his reaction. When his hand that’s holding mine tightens, I get the sense that he’s angry on my behalf. Livid, actually. My neck and cheeks are flush red. I feel embarrassed, and I’m unable to hold his gaze. He wanted my secrets now he has them. Surprisingly, I feel lighter now that he knows. He should know all of me if he plans to bring me into his world. I am not perfect, and I never claimed to be. I am most likely someone he’s not used to. My past is not pretty, and I am not the easiest person to understand. Yet, here he is, trying.

“Would it scare you if I told you that I daydream of slitting his neck and watching the blood pour out as he slowly dies a painful death?”

A sane person would.

Apparently, a sane person I am not.

“N-no.” I mumble. Then to ease his anger, I tell him. “Do not feel sad for me, Riagan. My sisters had it worse.”

“Don’t minimize your pain, your trauma, Mila. You were a child. One who did nothing wrong to deserve the twisted shit that motherfucker subjected you to. None of you did, but their pain does not diminish yours.” My heartbeat slows and all I can think of at this moment is how handsome he looks, looking down at me with angry eyes. The anger is directed at my father. Then his words touch a part of me that’s been hurting for a long time. The part where guilt resides permanently in me. “I’m sorry you had a shitty life, Mila.” I force myself to look into his blue eyes and my breath hitches when I see how intensely he is looking at me. There’s no pity or anger. There is just…longing? Is that it?

“Thank you, Riagan.” I breathe out.

“For?”

“Being you.” My eyes fall on his smile, and I watch in delight as it grows wider. I like it when he smiles. His smiles make me happy. Maybe one day I’ll find the nerve to tell him, but until then, I’ll just love them in silence.

“Only for you, butterfly. Only for you.” And that makes my heart beat abnormally fast, so much so that if I didn’t believe in science like I do, I would think my heart is trying to free itself from its confines in my chest and fall into Riagan’s hands.

The feelings this man stirs inside me never cease to surprise me. Every day with him feels like an adventure. Even the most ordinary of days with Riagan feel extraordinary.

Then, it all happens so fast, my head starts to spin.

Lost in my head, busy trying to make sense of a basic human reaction I’ve yet to fully comprehend, I notice Riagan is no longer holding my hand or sitting next to me.

No, he’s a few feet away, outside the gazebo, with his arm stretched out towards me as rain falls rapidly down on him.

How deep inside my head was I thinking of him that I missed the moment his hand let go of mine and he left my side?

“Mila.” He shouts gently over the loud noise of the waves and the rain. He’s getting all wet, and his beautiful light brown hair looks darker.

A lot of things have left me speechless or have taken my breath away throughout my life, but nothing quite compares to the sight of him at this moment in time.

“Yes, Riagan?” Standing up, I move closer to him. I focus on his face and watch in fascination as a blinding smile appears, revealing perfect white teeth. Thud. Thud. Thud. I gently tap my chest three times, trying to calm my rising heart.

“Dance with me.”

My eyes widen at his odd request. Dance with him? In the rain with no music on?

I’ve never danced with anyone. Not even my sisters.

It was not something we did.

I’ve imagined countless instances where I would be in the arms of a dashing prince as he spun me in circles, dancing the night away, but it was just all in my head. There was never a dashing prince.

My chin trembles, and so does my voice. “You want to dance in the rain? With me?”

“I do, with you.”

“But there is no music.” I point out the obvious to him, and he only laughs.

“We don’t need music.” This time when he offers me his extended hand again, I take it.

The tattooed giant tugs me gently until we’re standing chest to chest with my palms on his shoulders. I’m left breathless once again when his rough hands grab onto my waist, and he slowly starts to sway to the sound of the rain. My heart is beating so loud, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s able to hear it. Rain, wild waves, and all.

It’s been established that I don’t know much about love or feelings between two people. What I do know is that, in this moment, while dancing in the rain with Riagan’s hands on my body, I feel as if the parts of me that I believed were buried long ago are throbbing with life.

Parts I didn’t even think he could touch, he has.

There’s no dyeing it any longer. This man who looks like the devil has made a place for himself in my heart, and every day that I spend with him I feel myself losing myself in all that he is.

Does he feel the same? I wonder.

Of course, he does. Just look at the man. Really look at him. The small voice inside my head insists.

I do.

We’re pressed against one another, so closely that I can feel his hot breath on my face, warming me from the rain. I can smell the hypnotizing scent of his cologne. His scent evokes a combination of raw masculine power and fresh and playful sweetness.

I find myself wishing I had the power to stop time right at this moment. Every moment with him. The first few times we’ve been this close, I tried to protect my heart from the inevitable by telling myself that it is just in my head. That this feeling that takes over me every time he’s near is one-sided.

But it isn’t, is it?

“I’ve never danced with anyone before.” I blurt out.

“Me neither.” He pulls me closer, making my breath hitch. “I guess we’re each other’s firsts.”

And why does the thought of being the only woman he’s ever danced with fill my heart with joy and something else? Something possessive.

“I like that.” I whisper as he sways me from side to side. “Being your first dance. Your first something.” I steal a glance up at him and find him already looking at me, but his smile is gone. Flustered, I look back down at his chest. Sometimes I feel brave, and other times, the intensity with which he looks at me makes it too much. I have to look away. We continue swaying slowly and gently, and I feel his gaze on me.

“Was I your first kiss, Mila?” he asks, startling me. His voice is smooth and easy, and I imagine it as a soft rippling wave of sound. Comforting. Lovely with its bass tones. I can’t get enough of this man’s voice.

Lifting my head, his gaze meets mine. I break contact and let my eyes focus elsewhere. “Yes.” I whisper, a bit embarrassed. What must he think? What girl my age has her first kiss at twenty years old?

“Fuck, baby.” A growl escapes him, startling me.

My gaze shoots up, and I look up at him with fresh eyes.

His gaze shoots down to mine, then pins me for one long moment. And I swear I feel stripped down like he could see under my clothes. Like he could see even beneath that. To my heart. My soul.

Then his finger was tracing my lower lip, then slipping to my chin and angling it up.

The next thing I knew, his lips were on mine.

Soft and coaxing at first. Then getting firmer and more demanding as I felt myself sway into him and sighing against his lips.

Feeling the sudden urge to have more of him. To feel him closer. More than we already are. My hands rise, sliding up his chest. Feeling the hard ridges of his muscles beneath his shirt.

His mouth was warm, and his lips were damp, pliable, and firm. His lips softened as our mouths met, and his hand clutched my jaw, fingers on my cheek, thumb on my chin, and brushing across my cheekbone with soul-shaking intimacy. I feel his tongue dance across my upper lip. We were kissing. Riagan was kissing me—I was kissing him. My heart stopped entirely for an agonizing moment and then pounded to life, crashing madly. It felt as if he belonged to me in some way.

He pulls back, suddenly breaking the kiss.

I don’t know what comes over me, but when I open my eyes, they clash with his heated ones, and I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “Riagan, do you know the most beautiful places on earth?” His hold on me doesn’t loosen, and the rain keeps falling around us like a gentle caress. “Ha Long Bay, the colosseum, the Amazon rain—” I don’t get to finish sharing all the places because he stops me,

“Nah, baby. You are.” He whispers close to my lips. “The most beautiful place is right here with you.”

I don’t know if it’s the effect of his kiss or his words. All I know is that one moment I am looking at him while my heart beats wildly inside my chest, and the next, I am pulling him down by his neck. Our lips meet once more, and a crazy tingle races down my spine and explodes in my stomach like little fireflies. I become mesmerized by his kiss, which makes me way weaker in the knees than I want to admit.

Various things bring me joy.

Memories of my sisters, my plants, baking, and the color blue. All those things were my safe place when everything felt ugly and dark.

But then I met this man and added him to that list.

His voice, and now?

The feel of his hands on my skin and the taste of his lips.

Suddenly, Riagan breaks the kiss again, but his face lingers closer to mine.

“Fuck,” he murmurs against my lips. “One taste will never be enough, butterfly.”

Then his teeth are nipping my lower lip, and all other thoughts fly out of my head.

My hands slid upward, resting on his shoulders, and I kissed him back with everything in me.

A soft, mewling sound escapes me as his tongue teases the seam of my lips, then slides inside to toy with mine. And while he kisses me senselessly I think of how this man has the power to ruin me for everyone else.

I also think that it feels almost impossible to stop this feeling. It’s maddening. Overwhelming.

Beautiful.

It’s Riagan.