Mariam, the clown

He was a slut, a slut for this man.

“What are you thinking about?” Nate said, carding his fingers through his hair.
“I was thinking about how easy it would be to kill you.”
The impossible man chuckled, as if Damiano had said something funny.

Damiano didn’t exactly look reassured by that. “You can’t be here,” he bit off, even though he was leaning into the touch. “Why are you here?”
“Do you want me to go?” Jordan said, feeling a rush of fondness mixed with amusement. It was like petting a wild, dangerous cat that leaned into his touch even as it bared its teeth at him menacingly.

He shouldn’t have been such a mess when he couldn’t even define what Damiano had become to him. Someone not quite a friend and not quite a lover. Someone he loathed, needed, and adored. Someone he understood on an intimate level and didn’t understand at all. Someone who, in different circumstances, in another life, might have become more.
But might have, could have didn’t matter.

“Go ahead, caro,” he said, involuntarily adopting a gentler tone. Christ, he was disgustingly soft when it came to this man.

Rationally, Jordan knew that this was a very dangerous, cold-hearted man. But he felt like safety to him, no matter how irrational it was.

This is my man, it whispered with vicious satisfaction. Look how knowledgeable, powerful, and attractive he is.

He felt no remorse about hurting people. Except this one. This one was precious. This one was his. This one made him feel.