Phantom

August 14, 1944

I’ve learned a lot about Ronaldo over the past couple of months. And while there are certain things he hasn’t confided in me—such as his job—I’ve asked him just about everything else.

Except if he likes sweets.

I pull the baking sheet from the oven and set it on the stovetop, staring at the chocolate chip cookies as if they’re centipedes—something he confessed he’s terrified of that might chase him away.

They’re just cookies, for God’s sake.

But what if he hates them? What if he hates chocolate? I should’ve made sugar cookies.

I’m lost in thought, running through scenario after scenario, solidifying that baking for this man was a colossal mistake.

Ever since he undressed me in the kitchen a month ago, we’ve been spending a lot of our days growing more accustomed to one another’s touch. Mostly kissing and heavy petting, as his refusal to take things further is persistent. Even still, my lips have been too darn preoccupied to ask him a simple question.

Do you like cookies?

I’m so lost in thought that when a heavy weight lands on my shoulder, I belt out a scream that damn near shatters my coffee mug.

Whipping around, I find Ronaldo standing behind me, his brows nearly in his hairline in a mildly amused expression. Meanwhile, I’m standing frozen solid, stricken by his sudden appearance. I can’t breathe around my thunderous heart lodged in my throat.

In fact, I’m fully convinced I’m experiencing a heart attack.

His smile grows, and it’s enough to coerce my body to breathe.

“Have those cookies insulted you, my love?”

I deflate, shooting him a disgruntled look.

“No. As a matter of fact, they did not. Not that it’s any of your business what warfare I engage in with sugary food,” I snip haughtily, though my words lack heat. If anything, I’m entirely mortified.

The mirth twinkling in his gaze is distracting, however, and I can’t help but fall into some type of trance. He told me many stories about his days in the military. About the shrapnel that flew into his eye after a comrade standing beside him shot off his gun, unaware of the obstruction in the barrel. He said it caused the gun to explode and send shrapnel flying into both their faces. It completely blinded his comrade, but thankfully, he was spared the worst of it.

He was incredibly lucky that the shard was tiny enough that he didn’t lose the eye completely, but the damage was still permanent. The light milky-blue color that has corroded his pupil isn’t too much lighter than his iris, and it gives him such a peculiar look.

Oddly enough, I find it incredibly attractive. Something I also confessed to him.

“Baby.”

He sounds amused. The single word pulls me out of the trance, and my cheeks instantly flush hot.

You’re just intent on making a damn fool of yourself today.

“I— What?”

I blink, and he’s chuckling, the sound as pleasing to my ears as a Frank Sinatra song.

“The cookies,” he reminds. “Are they for me?” He flicks his eyes toward them, and I follow his line of sight, having completely forgotten about them.

“Yes?” I answer, though it sounds more like a question. Clearing my throat, I try again. “Do you like cookies?”

His grin is less teasing and warmer this time. “I love them.”

Relief rockets through me, and rather than continuing to stare at him like a goof, I spring into action. It takes two minutes to plate the fresh cookies and hand them to him, a wobbly smile on my face.

“I feel a little silly baking for you,” I admit sheepishly. “It’s hard to cook for you without John’s noticing missing food or random leftovers, but these will go undetected.”

I cringe, hating to bring up my husband. It’s not necessarily a sore subject between us, but we often avoid talking about him. It hasn’t slipped my attention that every time I say John’s name, Ronaldo’s eyes darken and flash with fury. For obvious reasons, he’s never been thrilled about my having a husband. But after John hurt me, that contempt has transformed into murderous rage.

He’s careful to control the reaction, the emotion flicking through his gaze with speed. But I hate making him feel it at all.

He leans forward and places a soft kiss on my mouth. Then he pulls away just a few centimeters, enough for him to whisper against my lips, “I’ve always loved cookies. Maybe because I enjoy eating things that are sweet and melt on my tongue.”

His voice is so incredibly deep, and his tone is devilish. A shiver crawls down my spine, the salacious implication of his words not lost on me. It takes a few tries before I manage to swallow the rock in my throat.

“They’re all yours to eat,” I choke out.

“Only mine?” he asks, stepping closer until his body molds into mine, my eyes ensnared by his.

“Yes.” The word comes out as a squeak, and my cheeks burn, both from his proximity and my lack of control.

“Good,” he rasps. “I’m starving, mia rosa.”

Then the space in front of me is suddenly empty, and I’m staring at his back as he carries the plate of sweets to the island. He doesn’t just walk away from me—he saunters.

I narrow my eyes, a surge of determination and annoyance burning through any resistance I had for this man.

“You keep walking away,” I snap.

He pauses, turning his head over his shoulder to peer at me.

“Are you going to stop me, my love?”

“Why do you keep making me chase you?” I parry.

He stays quiet as he sets the plate on the island countertop, then approaches me again. He stops a foot away, deliberately not touching me this time.

“Because I don’t know that I’d handle it well if you ran away,” he responds simply.

I frown, not sure I understand what he means.

“I would follow you anywhere, Genevieve. If you were standing at the edge of the earth and wanted to fall, I would only stop you long enough to take hold of your hand so I could go with you. There isn’t a life where I wouldn’t be your phantom, or a death where I wouldn’t be your reaper.”

He places his hand flat on my chest, keeping me at arm’s length.

“If you tried to run away from me, I don’t think I’d let you. I would do . . . anything to make you stay. And there are moments where I feel . . . Where there are things that I want to do to you that might cause you to run. And I’m afraid of that, so I walk away first.”

I grab his wrist and remove it from my chest, then step into him, inhaling his intoxicating scent.

“What makes you think I’d run?” I ask, my voice hardly above a whisper. “How do you know I wouldn’t beg for the things you want to do to me?”

His upper lip curls into a snarl, and he glances away from me just as his gaze darkens with feral desire. He’s trying to collect himself, likely before he loses control.

Yet that reaction alone has me unraveling at the seams, and I am no more in control than he pretends to be.

“Genevieve,” he bites out, still refusing to meet my stare. I press myself into him, molding every inch of our bodies together. His eyes close, inhaling deeply as my lips whisper across his neck.

“You think you’ll scare me—that you’ll make me scream. Yet screaming for you is exactly what I would love to do, Ronaldo.”

He snaps, and before I can take my next breath, his hands are clutching either side of my jaw and he’s crashing his mouth onto mine.

There’s no process of losing my mind to this man. It’s there and gone in an instant. I return the kiss with just as much passion, my hands tearing at his shirt, buttons scattering to the checkered tile.

Once the tattered fabric drops to the floor, he lifts me in his arms, and I hook my legs around his waist as he carries me to one of the red velvet couches in the living room.

I’m on my back as he settles over me, trailing his lips down my jaw before sinking his teeth into the delicate flesh beneath my ear.

I arch into him, a moan unleashing from my throat.

“Ronaldo,” I plead, needing more. Needing all of him.

He rips himself away to stare down at me, the two of us panting heavily, our breaths shaky and frenzied.

“We will take things slow,” he orders. I’m shaking my head before he finishes, nearly blind with lust. If this man dares walk away again, I will—

“I will give you what you need, Genevieve. I won’t leave you wanting,” he vows. He lowers his head to place a gentle kiss on the swell of my breast, right above the neckline of my dress. “But today will be all about you.”

I’m selfish and want everything, but I’m desperate enough to accept anything from him, even if it’s small.

“Uh-huh,” I eke out, roving my hands over every part of him I can reach. His chest, his shoulders, down his arms—I want to feel all of him.

He sits up, pulling me up with him. Confused, I watch as he sits down on the couch and spreads his legs. He taps his lap, a devilish grin playing on his lips.

“Come sit on my lap, pretty girl. Let me take care of you.”