“Shit.” He stiffens as my nails burrow into the ropey scars, but I can see in his eyes the process of him physically holding himself back. He knows what I do.
I’m owed this. The ability to explore him to my heart’s content. To closely inspect every ridge and drop of ink forming his tattoo. It’s mine. Every inch of him is mine.
And all he can do is submit to me.
Exploring him in this way feels like relearning a language I never realized I’d forgotten—only with time it’s grown more complex, with far more nuances than I remember.
He is a map of various scars and flaws and old injuries, but he only flinches when I graze what little unmarred flesh remains. Right below his collar bone. Along his throat and up…
It’s strange how a face I’ve seen or imagined hundreds of times can seem so different up close. His eyes are more than just brown, dark enough to touch on black, judging me with a precision that cuts deep.
His stare used to make me feel so small. Like I was just one of a handful of creatures worthy of deserving the attention of Donatello Vanici.
Now, I see myself reflected in those irises, older, sporting an expression I’ve never seen in a mirror.
I run my hand along his cheek, sensing the strong panes and chiseled muscle beneath. His skin feels worn, speckled with dark stubble. I take my time tracing every inch, every hair, every pore, memorizing them all.
His frown is so much more complex up close, his lips in a stern line, his mouth contorting with the effort it takes to maintain it. A frown that becomes more prominent by the second.
“You’re drunk,” he rasps, though from his tone, I can tell that he doesn’t believe that. One sip of alcohol can’t alter a person so drastically.
But years of pain can. If I’m drunk, it’s on his indifference. His apathy. His lies. Even now, he can’t fully give me what he promised—he still has to maintain control, tensing beneath me.
Lately, I’ve only found one way to unnerve him.
His lips part as if sensing my intention before I even press mine against them.
I want him to cringe. Recoil. Resist.
But I always underestimate the way my body reacts to him. It’s a slow-rolling fire, much like the blaze consuming the west end of the city. Scorching and suffocating all at once. Consuming heat and wicked flames.
Nothing in the world compares to it—the feel of his mouth, the warmth of his breath. He grunts in alarm as I slip my tongue inside, stealing a taste for myself. Then another. More.
It’s revenge more effective than anything that could be achieved with a knife or some other form of assault. It goes deeper than any wound, bridging the gap that even words can’t breach. I’m in his head, in his soul, privy to all of the subtle things that make him tick, and the fact that he hates this…
At the same time, his body betrays him, relaxing into mine. His hands grip my hips, settling against me with a familiarity that takes my breath away. Desperate for more, I rock into the firmness of those fingers.
Then I grab one, manipulating the thick ridges and firm knuckles.
“What are you…” He grunts in shock when I guide his hand lower. “Stop.”
I feel more of him, pressing against me from every possible angle. His chest against mine. His thighs, so thick and rigid with muscle.
“Stop!” He shoves me off, lurching to his feet.
I watch him pace, raking a hand through his hair as if the act alone can help reassemble his control—and it does. His stern frown returns, his eyes darker than ever. “Just stop. Enough.”
But it will never be enough. Greedily, my tongue traces my lower lip, hunting for his taste, and I feel the enormity of his loss all over again. He’s managed to turn the tables, regaining all the control.
And there is nothing I can do about it.
“Here.” He crosses the room, snatching an empty glass from the bar cart. Then he retreats further into the suite and returns with the glass full of water. “Drink this,” he demands, shoving the cup into my hand. “Sober up.”
He leaves again, and I hear a door slam.
But he’s still in the suite somewhere, regrouping.
Regaining his composure.
Regaining control.
20
Evgeni
I can smell the city burning from here. The acrid stench is chillingly familiar, unlocking a swath of memories I’ve spent years suppressing.
Fire is a tricky, beautiful element. So slow to build. Quick as hell to rise. Before you know it, the blaze is beyond control, devastating in its destruction…
There’s nothing on earth like it. I’ve seen how quickly it can consume sticks of wood—and yet how sluggishly it can creep over a human body, licking away skin and bone at a leisurely pace. The smell haunts you forever.
Hands down, it’s the most gruesome death I can name.
Drowning would be a close second.
I shake my head to clear it and refocus on the sole reason I’m here, and not closer to the blaze. I should be there, helping any way I can. Let Briar Winthorp find her own way out of the trap she’s set with her secrets and lies.
No matter how deeply I believe that, I don’t move. Instead, I scan the water, hunting for the equivalent of a needle in a haystack. Or, to be more specific, a woman in an ocean.
The bitch set me up, I’m sure. Most likely, a sniper is perched somewhere nearby, waiting to take a shot, while she lounges on the boat floating in the distance, cackling over how well her “reckless” plan worked.
I can’t even blame her for gloating. She got to me. Got inside my head…
And, speak of the devil.
What I mistook at first for a trick of the light, turns out to be a mass of golden hair, floating
