Page 93 of Corrupted Heart

But instead of a scowl, it’s a grin I see on her face when she turns toward me, shaking her head. “No matter how many times I hear that said, especially by older generations like mine who should know better, it never ceases to make me angry.” She frowns. “A wife should make her husband happy by her mere presence. Because she’s who she is, and that’s what he enjoys about her. Not because she’s cleaning up after him or making him the ‘right’ meals.” Her silvered brows knit as she shakes her head again. “That’s not marriage. That’s indentured servitude.”

I grin.

I think I’m going to like this woman a lot.

“Our world, Bianca, is full of marriages of convenience, or of inconvenience, or marriages to keep the peace. That’s simply the way it is. But no matter the reasons for two people getting married, it’s still a promise. And a promise goes both ways. Yes, I hope that you make my grandson happy, just as I hope he makes you happy. But not because you break your back doing things for him.”

She starts to line her ingredients up on the kitchen island between us.

“Bianca, I don’t want to teach you how to make my baklava today so you can satisfy Kratos. He’s a grown man, and a very fine cook himself, and he can make his own damn baklava if he wants some.” She winks at me again. “I’m teaching you because you’re going to be part of our family, and I’ve always taught all the women in our family how to make it so that they can make it for themselves should they choose to. Okay?”

A wide smile threatens to split my face as I nod. “Okay.”

Dimitra nods. “Good. Let’s bake.”

18

BIANCA

The creaky old doors groan as I open them. Stepping inside, a cold shiver finger-walks up my spine as I step back into this place.

The scene of the crime.

The place where I can let go of reality and submerge myself in the fucked-up and deliciously deviant.

The doors close with a whine behind me, and I tremble.

It feels different this time. The church is even darker, like the lights outside have been turned out.

I don’t mean that metaphorically. It’s literally almost pitch black in here, as if he really did cover the windows. There’s no trace of the faint glow of stained glass like the last two times I’ve been here.

Only a throbbing, magnetic, slightly unsettling black promise. Only darkness, with a single candle flickering in the middle of the floor.

No sign of Kratos.

My skin tingles with nervous energy, the mix of fear and excitement the strongest drug in the world as it courses through my veins.

A needy, achy heat pools slickly between my thighs. And that’s how I know it’s not just that I’ve “agreed” to this.

I want it.

I crave it.

And the truly fucked up part is, I might need it, too.

“Kratos?”

My voice echoes in the stuffy stillness of the old church. But there’s no response. Not a sound.

My lower lip disappears between the safety of my teeth. My core tightens as cold shivers prickle my skin.

“Kratos?”

More silence. Eerily so. It’s the sort of quiet that comes before a storm, when even the birds have fled, sensing the coming fury and wrath.

Yet you’re dumb enough to stay.

Willingly.

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