SACRIFICE | MAFIA ROMANCE | SMUT

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Jace spends a lot of time on his laptop.

He's also bossy and domineering.

With a towel swaddled around my body, I peered into our bedroom, the usual magnolia walls, plain wooden floors and upholstered furnishings.

Jace has his back propped up against the headboard, almost dressed, ripped black jeans, an unbuttoned black shirt to match his black heavy-duty boots.

It's safe to say, black is Jace's favourite shade.

"What are you doing?" I pried, hand latching to the doorframe. "You haven't come up for air."

Tapping the keyboard with one hand, he lifted a vodka bottle to his lips. "Get dressed."

What did I tell you? Bossy and domineering.

"Yes, sir," I mumbled under my breath, leaving wet footprints in my wake.

I emptied shopping bags on the bed, strewing high-heeled shoes, ostentatious dresses, discounted miniskirts, off-the-shoulder blouses and fake eyelashes. "I don't know how to do these." I opened a packet, snapped the strip. "Shit. I broke it." I relented, opting for Fiber mascara. "Oh, for Christ's sake!"

Jace glimpsed at me over the laptop screen. "What?"

"I am an embarrassment to the female population." I sat on the bed, crossed my legs and squirted a dollop of foundation on my hand. "It's Chloe's speciality." I motion to my face with a beauty blender. "She slaps on the war paint, glamorising and whatnot. I'm not too good at this stuff. And these," I hold up the oversized clothes, "are too big for me."

His eyes went from the heaped clothes to me. "Then why didn't you buy smaller sizes?"

I hadn't realised until the lingerie store. "What am I going to wear? It'd help if I knew where you were taking me."

"Something sexy" is his unhelpful response.

I selected a black bodycon dress with spaghetti straps. It's skin-tight, so no worries about indecent exposure. I'll return the rest or exchange.

Blonde wig and full-faced makeup sorted, I slip on strappy heels, complementing my chosen attire and stuff a clutch bag with essentials. I finalised my image with a stroke of red matte lipstick. "I'm ready."

"I need another hour," Jace said, engrossed by whatever is on that damn laptop. "Drink."

I narrowed my eyes. "I am not sitting here, getting inebriated while you're busy roaming the net." He ignored me—again. "Nathan—"

"Fuck, Vick!" he barked, rubbing his irate features. "I need a fucking minute!"

His curt, biliousness was unnecessary. "Fine," I clipped, unlocking the bedroom door. "I am going to that bar around the corner. When you're ready to apologise? Come and find me." I slam the door, deliberate and with a wall-shattering bang. "Asshole."

Holding the wooden guardrail to descend the stairs, I espied Heather hauled up behind the reception desk. She's an older woman, late fifties. And she's pleasant, friendly and gregarious. Her overbearing social skills need tweaking, though. In less than five hours this woman has knocked our door eight times, offering baked goods, reading material and chuntering me into immobilising hypnosis.

Don't get me wrong, Heather's a lovely woman, but after Jace's impatient rudeness this evening, I am not in the mood for small talk or discussing trivial matters.

"Miss Rose," exclaims Heather, rounding her vintage-style desk, resting to admire an orchid plant. "You look ravishing, darling. I love the dress."