Page 201 of Breaking Rosalind
I sit up, leaning my back against the headrest, and watch Cesare walk to the dresser where he’s lined up a range of pill bottles. His muscles ripple on his back, making the skull tattoos come to life. His hair is untied, forming loose waves that cascade toward his broad shoulders.
Sometimes, that masculine beauty is jarring, although I can’t fathom why. If I focus on how good he looks, it hurts.
“Ibuprofen okay? If you want something stronger, I got hold of mefenamic acid, but I have others if you want something different.”
Warmth spreads through my heart at this saner, less sadistic version of Cesare who wants to give me choices.
“I’ve only ever had naproxen, but that was years ago,” I reply.
He selects a bottle and brings it over with a glass of water. When my stomach rumbles, he frowns.
“Hungry, love?” he asks.
“I didn’t eat at the lab with all those chemicals,” I mutter. “If you have a snack bar or some nuts?—”
“How would you like zucchini pasta with avocado Alfredo?” he asks as he hands me a glass of water and two pills.
“How did you—” I shake off the question. “Miranda?”
He chuckles. “She told me all about your fixation with raw vegan food. I arranged for the chef of the Raw Kitchen to come over and fix you a meal.”
My eyes narrow. “When you say arranged, does that mean abducting her at gunpoint?”
“I bought out the restaurant for the night and paid double her usual rate to come and cook.”
“There’s no cooking in raw food.” I knock back the pills, swallowing them down with the water.
He grins. “That’s what she said. She’s waiting in the galley for your order.”
The warm feeling in my chest turns to a flutter. “That’s… Thank you. Can I borrow some clothes?”
His gaze darts to the room’s low table, which is covered in piles of boxes. My smile falters at the reminder of the lingerie and leather he forced me to wear to his family dinner, but he takes my hand.
“It’s not what you’re thinking. The owner of Dolce Vita called earlier to arrange a delivery of the items you ordered.”
I straighten. “Oh.”
“Would you like a massage before your shower?”
“Don’t tell me you hired a professional to massage my knots?”
“Not exactly.” His lips tick up in a smirk, and his eyes twinkle with mischief.
My brows rise. “You?”
He nods, all traces of amusement fading into something serious.
I can’t handle this kinder version of Cesare who isn’t being overbearing or calling me his pet. That was a man I mildly despised, but at least I knew his motives.
Bitter experience has taught me that powerful men are only generous and nice when they want more than you’re prepared to give. Kindness is only a trap men use before they unleash their inner monster.
“You’ve done enough,” I mutter, my gaze dropping to my lap.
“Don’t fight me. I need this just as much as you.”
“Why?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper.
“I don’t know how else to say I’m sorry,” he replies.