Semua Bab Burn For Me : Bound By The Mafia King: Bab 31 - Bab 40

Cali’s pov.The second Killian Vale—my supposedly dead fiance—walks in, the air is sucked out of the room.It’s like the devil returned to claim what he thinks still belongs to him, as if no time has passed, as if his death—news I learn now was nothing but a well-played lie.My lungs seize.I want nothing more than to run from this room. To escape the horrors crawling out of the crevices of my memories involving this monster.But my legs don’t work right, and my throat has closed off so tight I can barely remember how to breathe through it.I forget the conversation I was half-listening to. I forget the half-drunk glass of wine sweating on the table in front of me. I forget—for a fraction of a minute—the damned situation I was in with Hale Holt.I forget everything.Except him.He’s taller than I remember. Broader across the shoulders. His hair’s shorter, his jaw sharper, and there’s a new scar dragging across his collarbone that wasn’t there the last time I saw him, but it’s the way

Cali’s pov.The bar is dim and cold, not from lack of heating but from the kind of sterile, soulless chill that clings to places built for transactions and silence, the kind of chill that seeps into your bones when there’s too much unsaid between the walls and not enough light to burn it away. I sit hunched on a red leather stool that’s seen better days, the shine on it dull and creased, like my spine, like my thoughts—like my resolve. The burger in front of me, stacked high and absurd with garnish and grease, is a disaster I haven’t even touched, save for the single bite I took ten minutes ago just to convince the hovering bartender I wasn’t going to start sobbing into the ketchup bottle.I press my forefinger into the sesame seed bun, watching the juices pool out from the edge where the meat is beginning to gray at the edges, losing heat and appeal in equal measure. My fingers curl and uncurl around the edges of the chipped ceramic plate, just for the sake of doing something with my

Hale’s jacket is yanked off my head with a brutal kind of finality. For a second, I have to blink against the sudden flood of artificial light that slams into my vision—then I feel all the air deflating from my lungs.I don’t need to see the padded bed to know where we are. My chest already knows. My spine already knows. The familiar chill crawls down the back of my neck and burrows deep into my bones before I even raise my head.No.No, no, no, no—We’re back.Back in that fucking room.Back in the dungeon with the sterile walls and shackles and restraints built into the damn furniture like it’s designed to swallow sanity whole.The second I see the bed—the one with the leather cuffs stretched taut on either side—I twist on instinct, shoving at Hale’s chest with every ounce of strength I have left, aiming for the door behind him even though I know, deep down, I’ll never reach it.My boot barely scrapes the floor before he grabs me.I thrash. I kick. I fight with every ounce of streng

Hale doesn’t say a word.I grab the edge of the towel tighter and bare my teeth. “What the hell do you want?”His eyes linger on my face, then down to my clenching thighs. For hell sake, did he just hear me? “You took your time.”Yes, he fucking did. The nerve of him.I step back, but only a little. Enough to let him know I’m not letting him walk into this space like he owns it, even if we both know he does.“You think you can just show up wherever you want?”“I do,” he says evenly. “Because I can.”I clench my jaw until it hurts. “You already got what you wanted. You put your brand on me like I’m one of your goddamn containers. You paraded me in front of your enemies like I’m some trophy you won at auction.” Fucked me senseless, but I’m not about to say that out loud. “What else could you possibly want now?”He pushes off the wall and moves toward me. Slow. Intentional. His eyes don’t leave mine. “To remind you who you belong to.”My chest tightens. “I don’t belong to anyone.”He sto

Hale’s pov.The door’s locked.Of course she fucking locked it.I try the handle once again, and it still doesn’t budge. I shift the covered silver tray in my hand and glance at the sealed line between wood and frame like it’s testing me.The tray isn’t heavy, but I’ve been holding it long enough that the weight presses into my palm. Steak. Roasted vegetables. Garlic bread she probably won’t touch. I had them make it fresh.She hasn’t eaten since early afternoon. Not properly, at least. And that shower earlier probably drained what little strength she had left.I shouldn’t be surprised she locked the door. After what happened when she walked out of the bathroom—my comment to intentionally provoke her—because fuck it, I love it when she’s riled up—then the slap, the look she gave me before I walked out—I knew this would be her next move. She’s predictable in that way. Hurt, retreat, pretend she’s fine, then lash out when her silence isn’t enough.I wait another breath.My eyes drift to