Page 92 of Corrupted Heart

On the bite he’s just given me.

Tasting my blood, and my whimper.

Why the hell is that so fucking hot?

When he finally pulls away, I’m in a state of shock, my eyes wide as I stare up at him. My core ripples, and my thighs are clenching together tightly.

“Hmph,” he grunts. “Tastes real to me.”

No words. Before I can even attempt to find any, Kratos turns and knocks on the closed double doors we’ve arrived at.

“Oh, and one more thing,” he growls quietly, turning to me. “Later tonight, you’re meeting me at the church.”

I know what that means. Every fiery inch of my body knows what that means. But I ask anyway.

“Why is that?”

Something lethal and exhilarating flickers behind his piercing blue eyes.

“Because I have no intention of fucking a virgin on my wedding night.”

Holy fuck.

My core spasms, my pulse skipping as Kratos turns to the door in front of us as footsteps approach on the other side.

“Tonight, we’ll be taking care of that.”

“Do you like baklava?”

I’m sitting alone with Dimitra Drakos, or “Ya-ya”, as her grandchildren call her, on the terrace of her private office. Before us lie the sweeping, gorgeously manicured grounds of the Drakos estate. They extend out to every edge of the building, where the rose bushes, manicured lawns, and stone walkways suddenly drop away like cliffs to Central Park below.

It’s just Dimitra and me: Kratos left as soon as she welcomed me into her office. The woman is petite—like not even five feet, and probably ninety pounds after a swim. But there’s still an unquestionable power that radiates from her.

Obviously, Ares is the head of the Drakos family. But at the same time, I get the sense that Dimitra would get the final word on most issues if she put her foot down.

My stomach grumbles at the word “baklava”.

“I love baklava,” I enthuse. “There’s this little Greek pastry shop on 26th and Lexington?—”

“Yiorgos’ Café, yes,” she finishes. “I know it. Good baklava…” She lifts a bird-like shoulder. “But if that’s your favorite, we need to expand your horizons.”

I grin. “Any recommendations?”

“Yes. My own.”

I blink as she puts down her cup of tea and stands. “Come with me.” She winks. “We’re making baklava.”

Okayyy? I follow Dimitra through the gorgeous home until we step into a jaw-droppingly beautiful kitchen.

“It’s easier than you think. Plus, it’s Kratos’ favorite.”

For some reason, that hits weirdly. I stiffen as she bustles around the kitchen, pulling various ingredients from shelves.

“You’re teaching me because I have to make my husband happy?”

Shit.

It comes out with way more attitude than I intended. I wince, bracing myself for Dimitra’s wrath, or a stern talk about how it’s a mafia wife’s duty to make her husband’s life comfortable and bear his children.

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