Devil’s Thirst: A Mafia Stalker Romance (The Moretti Men Book 1)
Devil’s Thirst: Chapter 31

If the Guinness Book of World Records keeps tabs on the most extreme mood swings in a single day, I’d have that title locked down. I’ve baffled myself at how swiftly I bounced back from utter despair and terror in that alley to floating on puffy clouds of hope and belonging. And it’s all because of Sante.

Well, I’ll give Gloria some props, too. She is my Mama G, after all.

Secure in Sante’s arms, I feel untouchable. I have this newfound confidence that everything will work out, though I have no idea how. That’s not like me. I’m not the sort to relax until a problem is six feet under, and John Talbot is still very much in the here and now.

If Sante has his way, he won’t be for long.

I feel a thrill when I think about the life fading from that monster’s eyes. I want him gone. The only problem with that is if he’s killed, he never truly has to pay for his crimes. That’s been bugging me lately. It’s so unfair that I should have to suffer for years, and death would be an easy way out for him. Granted, Sante would probably draw it out to some extent—not something I want to think about too hard—but it still doesn’t sit right.

Talbot should have to know what it’s like to live day after day after day shrouded in shame and fear.

That would be justice.

For years, I simply wanted him gone. Now that plans are in motion to make that happen, I’m starting to reconsider.

I give it some thought here and there during the evening as we eat, then watch a little more TV. The hours pass with surprising ease, as though we’ve been a couple for ages. I replace such comfort in his presence, that is, until we decide to call it a night. That’s when my heart takes its cue to down an adrenaline cocktail and start shadowboxing in my chest.

I stand awkwardly, unsure what to do or say. I’ve scurried to my room like a frightened rabbit each night he’s been here, but that doesn’t feel right tonight. I don’t want to go back there alone. I also can’t replace the words to invite him to join me. As it turns out, I don’t have to.

“Comin’ with you tonight.” Sante places his hand on my lower back, guiding me to lead the way.

“Okay,” I say quietly, my eyes seeking his in a brief plea for reassurance.

It’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay.

I take one step forward when his hand grasps me by the back of the neck. He halts my momentum, turning me around to face him. The intensity now carved in his stone features takes me by surprise. I suddenly feel like a child about to be chastened, and I have no idea why.

“I’d like to think you’d know by now that I’m not gonna make you do anything you’re not comfortable doing.” He’s been off ever since that text from his sister, and my moment of uncertainty seems to have struck a chord.

“I’m sorry.” I gnaw on my bottom lip. “I didn’t mean to imply I was worried. I’m just not very good at all this.” Because hardly any of my past relationships have ever made it this far.

Sante and I have progressed in a matter of weeks what’s usually taken me months in the past. I should be upfront and explain, but I can’t make myself do it. Explaining means showing him the weakest most pathetic parts of myself. Why go there if it’s not necessary? Let him make his own judgments about me. It’s better that way.

“You said you’ve been with other men, right?” he pushes, eyes narrowing.

“Yeah, I’ve had several boyfriends.” A couple.

“And you’ve had sex before?”

“Yes.” Once.

That’s enough with question time. I let a sheepish grin crook the corners of my lips. “You really shouldn’t doubt me when I tell you I’m an awkward mess. I’ll keep proving it, though, if you need reminders.”

He stares for three seemingly endless heartbeats before shaking his head. “Go on. You need rest before practice tomorrow.”

I do as I’m told, relieved he let it go. I go to the bathroom while Sante locks up. When I open the door, he joins me inside and starts the water for a shower. The second his clothes start coming off, I chicken out and abandon brushing my teeth for the safety of my bed.

I want to scream at myself for being such a coward.

Why? Why, when I desperately want to see the gorgeous body beneath his clothes, do I feel the need to run? He’s not going to hurt me. He’s not going to pressure me. I hate that I have to be this way, but I don’t know how to stop it.

I’m so fucking frustrated with myself that by the time he’s done, I’m curled up in a ball facing away from him, a tear dangerously close to wetting my pillow.

Sante slips beneath the covers and turns out the light. He doesn’t say a word. He simply curves his body protectively around mine and places a tender kiss behind my ear.

Simple as that, everything is right with the world again.

I don’t know how he does it. I’d say he could read my mind if I thought that sort of thing was possible. I’m glad it’s not because there’s plenty I’m not ready to share—like the fact that I’m falling for this complicated, beautiful man.

He’s not at all what I thought I wanted, yet he’s everything I need. He pushes me out of my comfort zone without risking harm and accepts me exactly as I am.

He’s also domineering, possessive, and a tiny bit unhinged.

Yeah, but I have my own fun little quirks as well. It’s hardly my place to judge, right? I mean, he’s sexy as hell and makes me feel like a queen. That’s all that should matter.

My inner debate partner goes eerily silent, and I don’t like it. She always has something to say.

Deciding not to borrow troubles, I allow the security of Sante’s presence to lull me into a deep and dreamless sleep.