Page 129 of Coerced Kiss

Cupping my cheek, he says, “Don’t work yourself up. I was only trying to help.”

I slap his hand away. “By killing my HR manager?”

“By killing anyone who doesn’t treat you like you deserve.”

“Stop.” I slam my palms over my ears. “I don’t want to hear this kind of talk any longer.”

He takes my wrists and pulls my hands away. “I don’t want to upset you. It’s not good for the baby.” Leaning in, he says ina low voice. “Just know this. I won’t hesitate to eliminate any person who harms you physically or in any other way.” He seals that promise with a kiss on my lips. “Now, come downstairs for dinner. The soup should be warm.”

I lean on the counter for balance. The stress of the whole situation leaves me wobbly and lightheaded. There are so many things about Saverio’s behavior I don’t understand.

He turns for the door.

“Why?” I ask to his back.

He stops and looks over his shoulder, waiting for me to continue.

“Why would you go to such lengths for me, Saverio?”

It’s not the first time I ask him this question, but he never gives me a straight answer. I don’t understand why he acts as if my happiness is vital to him when I’m just a temporary responsibility.

A second passes while I hold my breath. I’m not sure why. What do I want him to say? That he cares?

“You know why,” he says after another beat.

Why that answer disappoints me, I’d rather not know.

Not giving me a chance to say more, he leaves.

I drag in a long breath and let it out slowly. The minute he disappears down the hallway, I rush to get my phone from my bag. I do a quick search for different types of keys on my search engine, but it doesn’t bring up the key I found in the vault. I’ll do a thorough search when I have more time. I quickly delete my browser history and darken the screen.

Taking another minute to get my nerves under control, I change into leggings and a loose T-shirt before going to the kitchen.

Two bowls of steaming soup and a basket of rye bread stand on the island counter. Saverio pulls the cork of a wine bottle when I enter.

He puts the bottle aside and walks over to pull out a chair for me. Once he’s seated me, he pours two glasses.

“Non-alcoholic wine,” he says, handing me a glass.

I look up with surprise. “I didn’t know it existed.”

“I found a supplier in California who shipped me a crate. The producer only uses organic grapes.”

And there it is again, these oddly attentive acts that thoroughly confuse me.

“You didn’t have to go to so much trouble.”

He sits down opposite me. “Do you think I’d sip my wine in front of you when you’re not allowed a glass?”

“That’s…” I frown, “…very considerate.”

Leaning over, he clinks his glass against mine. “Here’s to your second trimester. How’s the all-day sickness?”

“Getting better.”

He watches me from over the rim of his glass as he takes a sip. “Are you still feeling faint?”

“I haven’t been dizzy in a while.”