If I could sink into the grass, I would. He should just hand me a shovel now if he’s planning on asking any follow-up questions.

He shakes his head, reaching for something behind him as he mutters, “Signore, dammi forza.”

Lord, give me strength.

I bite the inside of my cheek because I can deal with his anger, but not his disapproval.

“I have crackers.” I wince the second the words are out of my mouth.

“And?” He cocks a brow.

Please, no more follow-up questions.

“Maybe an apple…”

He sighs again and drops a container into my hands, which I quickly shove into my bag. He’s about to say more, but the sound of the front door opening causes his entire body to tense.

I gasp when he tugs me behind him, becoming a makeshift barrier between me and Marcus as he innocently descends the stairs. But Marcus’s eyes aren’t on me; they’re on Mickey, and they’re having a stare-off so vicious they could silence the cicadas with it.

Make that four traditions. He always glares at Marcus.

Neither of them breaks eye contact, even when I try to get Mickey’s attention.

“I don’t like him.” His voice is devoid of any softness, something I’ve only heard seconds before he goes in for the attack. “If he touches you, say the word, and he’s fucking dead. You got it?” Those steel eyes dart to where my room is, and he scowls. “I told you to keep your windows closed.” Roman trains his attention back on me, and I almost step back with how much ire simmers there. “Do you put the chair under the door handle like I told you to?”

“I mean, sometimes?” I haven’t. Not once. What if Jeremy has a nightmare?

I can’t very well lock him out.

His eyes darken. “The alternative is leaving the phone on the entire night so I can hear if that fucker comes in. Don’t say I don’t give you options.”

I shouldn’t get all gooey when he goes into protective mode, but I do. I don’t just know that he cares about me. I feel like I’m cared for.

“I’ll make sure I don’t forget,” I say, just to ease him. He worries a lot about other males, especially after how much I was bullied when I went away. But mainly because he sees what happens to the wives in the houses he used to get put in.

“You leave your window open at night. Nothing will stop me from checking to see whether you've been a good girl and done as you've been told.” If his voice alone could kill, I’d be dead ten times over. “You better make sure you do it.”

I bite the corner of my lip. Every sound, every accent-laced syllable coming out of his mouth is sending me and my swooning into a frenzy. “Or what?”

Oh no. I realize right away I shouldn’t have said that.

I wait with bated breath as the darkness in his eyes changes from murder to mayhem, and his lips morph into the grin that has every girl around dropping their panties.

“I have a question.” He prowls forward until our chests touch, and his scent consumes my every thought. My throat bobs as I stare at his lips. You never look a predator in the eyes. “How much punishment do you think you can take?”

I don’t answer. I’m not even sure if I heard him correctly. There aren’t just gremlins in my stomach anymore; there’s a colony of bees buzzing around in my veins, making tingles creep up my neck to where his skin touches mine. He doesn’t mean what I think he means, right? He’s never spoken to me this way before.

Mickey hums as his finger traces the line of my jaw. “I think you can take whatever I give you. I bet you’ll even ask for more.”

Yes, he definitely means what I think he means.

I bite my tongue to stop myself from making a single noise, because any sound that comes out of me will deepen my humiliation. I shudder when he leans down until his lips brush against my ears. “One more year and every inch of you will be mine.”

My hold on myself disappears as I whimper. He pulls back, lips quirked in satisfaction as he walks backward to his bike. I fix my gaze on the ground, body burning with sensations I’ve never felt before, and I’m hyper-aware of every breath he takes, every movement, every touch.

A helmet comes down over my head, and he fastens the buckles beneath my chin. He brushes his fingers along the skin of my neck, skimming my collarbones as I finally look up at him.

His helmet is already on, but there’s no escaping the weight of his stare on me. He could be watching the movement of his hands, transfixed on the trail of blazing heat he leaves behind. Or maybe his eyes are meeting mine, and he’s studying the effect of his touch. I want to know what he sees and what he’s thinking. I want to tap into his brain and see what types of ideas are bouncing around in his head.

And what punishment he had in mind.

I pull away first, missing his touch the instant it’s gone. As much as I want nothing more than to feel him, it’s eight in the morning, and he’s quite literally my ride to school.

He taps the top of my helmet twice before climbing onto his bike like he didn’t just threaten to punish me and tell me that I’ll like it.

Roman will be the end of me. I knew it the day I met him, and I know it now. Maybe I’m a sucker for pain, but I won’t fight it anytime soon.

We pull up down the road from the school, and like clockwork, I jump off the bike first, and Mickey follows straight away.

“Helmet off,” he orders, even though his hands are already underneath my chin, and he’s pulling it off for me as if I’m incapable of doing it myself.

“Thanks,” I mumble as my hair catches on the soft inner lining.

For a split second, I cringe at the thought of whether my braids survived the journey. My hair probably looks like a rat’s nest right about now.

He shakes his head once he takes his own helmet off, whipping the soft strands of raven-black hair across his forehead. Mickey hardly ever styles it, so some tufts stick up at odd angles to give him even more of a rugged appeal.

My eyes glue to his broad shoulders, trying to stop my shame from showing on my skin. He’s so lethally handsome. I don’t know how anyone can breathe around him.

“It’s cute,” he says, stroking my braids. “I like it.”

Five words. That’s all it takes to make the tension in my muscles relax to the point I almost become a weightless feather in the wind.

I tried extra hard to do my hair this morning—not that I don’t do that every other morning, but today is special. My crazy, thick hair is one of the things Mamá and I had in common. Every day she would plait her long dark hair into two French braids, then turn to me and do the most elaborate hairstyles.

She was obsessed with turning me into her own personal Minnie Mouse, giving me space buns or crazy pigtails with gigantic ribbons.

“Here,” Mickey says softly, gently turning me around. “Let me.”

Roman has many faces. Most of them, he never shows to the outside world. This side of him? It’s all for me. The one that evens my pigtails, fixes the many braids I’ve done, and reties the ribbon so it’s perfect. Cassie might see him elbows deep in an engine, but she’ll never get to experience this part of him. She’ll never know how it feels to have her heart swell with each tug, and her eyes will never well with unshed tears.

He’ll never truly understand how priceless that gift is.

I smile to myself, remembering all the times I’ve walked out of the house with my hair down as he gawks at me like I’m a whole other person. Every time, he’d pull out a comb and get to work on my hair. Each move of his hand is always practiced and precise, and he’s careful not to pull too hard or tie things too tightly.

Some kids give us weird looks as they pass, but most don’t bat an eye because they’ve seen this very scene enough times; me, gnawing on my lip while Mickey scowls at the back of my head like he’s been personally victimized by my hair.