99 Percent Mine: A Novel

This hangover is kicking my ass.

My head pounds as if there are loan sharks at the door, and my throat is lined with gravel. Two separate riots break out through my insides, and the morning sun sears through my eyelids.

This is all Marcello’s fault.

He has a crush on the restaurant’s sommelier, so he drags us out there every other night to try their selection of wine. It’s the same each time, with Marcello impressing the man with his vast knowledge of vintages, and us ending up drinking hours after the place shuts.

Groaning, I drag my carcass into the shower and wash away last night’s excess. Hot water pummels my back, scalding away the regrets, and steam wraps around my senses like a forgiving embrace.

My skin tingles, the heat working its way into my muscles, loosening the ache from too much wine and too little restraint. I love my bestie. I really do, but he’s such a terrible influence.

“Marcello.” I huff a laugh.

We’re each other’s emotional support. He’s one of the few people who truly understands what it’s like to survive an irresistible, toxic man.

Finally, the pounding eases to a background ache. I step out of the shower, slip into a fluffy robe, and wrap a towel around my hair into a makeshift turban.

The woman staring back at me through the foggy mirror looks like a scalded cat—red eyes, red skin, red wisps of hair. I make a mental note to drink more water and step out of the bathroom, only to find a man sitting on my living room sofa.

I freeze, my mind turning to sludge. The sight of him in my space sends my pulse skittering. Benito doesn’t belong in my new apartment, yet his presence dominates the room.

He’s dressed in black, with the morning sun coloring his dark hair a rich shade of mahogany. With his regal features and that imposing posture, he may as well be Hades.

His molten eyes lock onto mine, boring into my soul.

Breath catching, I lose my footing and stumble backward, the lapel of my robe slipping down to expose my shoulder.

I pull the fabric together with a snap. Rage wells up in my chest, sharp and hot. I’ve spent months clawing my way out of a pit of heartbreak and helplessness, convincing myself that I’m stronger without him. Now he’s here, and it’s like nothing’s changed.

“What are you doing in my living room?”

“Don’t hide from me,” he drawls, his dark eyes raking over my form. “I’ve seen it all already.”

His arrogance grates against my nerves. How dare he brush off my boundaries like they don’t exist? This is classic Benito. Fire burns through my veins, making my cheeks heat. I would dismiss his presence as a post-alcoholic hallucination if I wasn’t so infuriated.

“Answer my question,” I snap. “What the fuck are you doing here? Get out!”

He rises off the sofa, filling my small living room with the oppressive weight of his presence. I dig my heels into the linoleum, refusing to be cowed.

“What were you doing last night with Marcello Demartini?” he asks.

I cross my arms, refusing to give ground. “After everything you’ve done—after the months of silence—you think you have the right to question me?”

His jaw tightens. “You are my wife⁠—”

“You don’t get to interrogate me, and you sure as hell don’t get to come here, acting like I’m your possession.”

He closes the distance, standing before me like the Roman god of intrusive husbands. I grind my teeth. Things were so much easier when we were both little, when I was capable of shoving him backward. Now, all I have to fight with are words.

“I gave you space to recover, not to go on dates with other men.”

I laugh, the sound bitter and harsh. “Do you think ignoring me for months counts as progress? You’ve done nothing to fix what you broke.”

He frowns. “I’ve been trying. Therapy, self-control—it’s all for you.”

“Did I ask you to see a shrink? All I wanted was honesty. No more manipulation. No more mind games. Why was that too much for you?”

His shoulders stiffen as if bracing against my words. The air between us thickens with menace before he steps ever closer. “Answer the question,” he says, his voice dropping to a dangerous low, “Or I’ll ask Demartini myself.”

Dread clenches my stomach. Mars doesn’t deserve to get dragged into this mess. “He’s a friend.”

“What kind?” His voice drops, low and threatening.

“The kind who can’t be bought to mess with my life,” I snap. “And I thought everyone knew he’s gay.”

His eyes widen.

The silence that follows is almost deafening. For once, Benito is caught off guard, and it feels like a small victory. But it’s not enough.

“You’ve got your answers. Now, get out.”

He doesn’t move. His dark eyes search mine, and for a moment, I see something that almost looks like regret. But regret isn’t change, and neither is his disappearing act.

“What about us?” he asks.

“Forgiveness must be earned, Benito,” I snap, mirroring something he said months ago. “And you won’t get it by bulling your way back into my life.”

Leaning even closer, he inhales slow and deliberate, as if committing my scent to memory. Tingles prickle along my skin, and I suppress a shiver.

“You’re mine,” he growls. “And I’m yours. Whether you want me or not.”