Chapter 108 DRUNK PRINCESS

Chapter 108 DRUNK PRINCESS

••Roman••

I have killed men for less than the way Luciana was looking at me right now.

The evening air in Mauritius was supposed to be peaceful, but all I could hear was the grating sound of my wife’s giggles and the sharp clink of the gin bottle against her glass for the fifth time. 

I stood by the railing, my jaw so tight it felt like it might shatter. I had warned her. Three times, I had told her to slow down, to put the glass away, but it was like talking to a brick wall, a very drunk, very stubborn brick wall.

"Just one more, Roman! Don’t be such a buzzkill," she slurred, her eyes unfocused as she reached for the bottle again.

I didn't answer. I just watched her. I could have killed here and no one would even know anything, but I just keep reminding myself that she’s my wife. 

I was losing my temper at a record pace. I was beyond frustrated. 

I had spent the last few weeks carrying the weight of Maya’s death, the failed hit on Marco, and the constant stress of the alliance. I had come here to breathe, but instead, I was babysitting a woman who currently had the mental capacity of a toddler.

"Luci, stop," I said, my voice vibrating with a low, dangerous warning. "You’re swaying. You’re making a fool of yourself."

"I’m dancing!" she shouted, waving her glass around. "To the music! Why are you always so serious? Mr. Big Mafia Man. Mr. I-Don’t-Follow-Rules. You're just grumpy because your suit is too tight!"

“I’m not even wearing a suit.”

I closed my eyes for a second, praying for patience. I had protected this woman from assassins, from my own family, and from herself.

And now, she was mocking me because I wouldn't join her in a drunken stupor? 

The stress of the last month seemed to boil in my blood. I felt a vein throb in my temple.

An hour later, the "fun" had turned into a nightmare.

She was sitting on the deck floor, humming a tuneless song and poking me. Poke. Poke. Poke. Each jab of her finger against my chest felt like a needle under my skin.

"Roman is a grump, Roman is a grump..." she sang, her voice high and annoying. "Poke! Does the big bad wolf feel that? Poke!"

"Luciana, snap out of it.” I growled. My hands were balled into fists at my sides. I was tired. I was so goddamn tired of the drama, of the constant push and pull. I had given her everything, and right now, she was treating my dignity like a toy.

She tried to stand up, stumbling and grabbing onto my linen trousers, nearly dragging them down. "Make me! You're just a bore!"

The snap happened before I could even process it.
It was an instinct—the dark, violent part of me that had been trained since birth to strike when provoked. My hand flew up, moving with the lethal speed of a man who spent his life in the ring. I felt the roar of the monster in my chest, the urge to silence the noise, to stop the poking, to demand the respect I was owed.

I froze.

My hand was inches from her face. I could see the reflection of my own rage in her widening, terrified eyes. The shock of my own action hit me like a physical blow to the stomach.

What the hell am I doing?

My fingers were trembling. Not with anger anymore, but with the sheer horror of how close I had come to crossing a line I could never uncross. 

The frustration was still there, the stress was still screaming in my ears, but looking at her flinch made me feel like the smallest, most pathetic man on earth.

I let out a jagged, guttural breath, forcing my hand down. My heart was pounding against my ribs so hard it was painful. 

I hated her stupid drama. I hated the way she pushed me until I didn't recognize myself. 

"Enough," I whispered, the word sounding more like a threat to myself than to her.
I didn't wait for her to say another word. I grabbed her arm firmly, but careful not to bruise her, and hauled her up. I marched her into the villa, my blood still simmering with a mix of leftover rage and new, stinging guilt.

"What are you doing? Roman! Let go!" she protested, her voice whiny and thin.

I didn't speak. I couldn't. If I opened my mouth, I was afraid of what might come out. I dragged her into the master bathroom and turned the shower on to its coldest setting. Without a word of explanation, I shoved her under the freezing spray.

The scream she let out was satisfying in a dark way. It was a wake-up call she desperately needed.

"AHHH! It’s freezing! Roman!"

I stood at the edge of the shower, my arm barring her exit. I watched the water soak through her silk nightwear, watched her shiver and gasp as the gin began to lose its grip on her brain. 

I felt a cold, clinical detachment. I needed her sober. I needed my wife back because I couldn't stand the woman she had been for the last three hours.

"Stay there," I commanded, my voice like ice.

"I’m going to get you a towel and water. If you move, I’ll put you back in."

I walked to the kitchen, leaning my head against the cool surface of the refrigerator. I was shaking. 

I grabbed a glass of lemon water and a towel, heading back to the bathroom. I turned off the water. She was standing there, dripping, shivering, and looking completely miserable. The fire was gone from her eyes, replaced by a quiet, somber clarity.

"Out," I said, handing her the towel.
I wrapped it around her, my hands working automatically to dry her arms. The anger was fading, leaving behind a hollow, aching exhaustion. I looked at her and saw the guilt written all over her face.

"Roman…" she whispered, her teeth chattering.

"I’m sorry. I was… I was a lot. I’m so sorry."

I sighed, the last of my tension leaving my body in a long, weary breath. I leaned my forehead against hers, closing my eyes. "You were a nightmare, Luciana. You know I have a temper.

You know I struggle to keep that part of me under control. And you spent the night poking the bear."

"I know," she said, her voice small. "I just wanted to forget everything for a while. I didn't mean to take it out on you."

"If you want to forget, talk to me," I murmured, pulling back to look at her. "Don't push me to the edge just because you're bored or stressed. I can’t be the man you need if you’re constantly trying to find the man I'm trying not to be."

She nodded, looking down at the floor. I felt a pang of protectiveness wash over me, burying the last of my irritation. She was a brat, she was dramatic, and she was the most stressful woman I had ever met—but she was mine.

"Go change," I said, giving her a small, tired smile. "If I see you near that gin again, I’m dumping the whole bottle in the ocean."

"I think I'm done with gin for a while," she promised.

As she walked away, I stood in the quiet bathroom, staring at my reflection. I had to be better. I had to handle the stress without losing my grip. But as I listened to the sound of her moving in the bedroom, I knew one thing for the sure: no matter how much she pushed, no matter how much she annoyed me, I would always be the one to hold the towel.

I just hoped she’d stop making me want to throw her in the ocean first.