Page 33 of Tarnished Reign

“What's your favorite book?” I ask.

“Rebecca,” she answers instantly. “That hint of romance but with the danger and the gothic vibes. I love the gothic. I’d have given anything to spend an evening with Byron and Shelley. Can you imagine? So yeah, Rebecca. Followed by Jane Eyre as a close second. What about you? Do you like to read?”

“I do. When I get the chance, which is not often these days. I read a lot in the military, though.”

Her brows punch up to her hairline. “You were in the military? Did you enjoy it?”

“Yep.” I give a quick nod. “I was in the Marines, and I loved it. I only left due to an injury.”

“Are you okay now?”

“Pretty much,” I prevaricate. She’s sharing with me, and I should return the gesture, but talking about my hearing loss makes me feel less than somehow.

She chews on her lip. “If you don’t mind me saying, it seems a bit strange. To go from the military to … this. The, you know … being in the work you do now.”

Her fishing around for a non-offensive way to explain what I do for a living makes me laugh softly under my breath. “You'd be surprised at how much the two roles have in common, to be honest. Anyway, I got into this line of work because of my father. Or, I should say, my stepfather. He runs the organization. He needed me to help, and I gave it.”

“Do you regret it?”

Her question throws me off balance. Most people simply don't ask me such things. In fact, I realize that this is the first conversation that I've had in a long time where I haven't been barking orders to someone. It’s refreshing. I’m enjoying talking properly with someone other than Alexis or Yuri who seem to be the only two people not afraid of me other than Jacob.

“No. I found it strange at first. And I worried that I was doing something that went against my principles. I learned quickly that wasn't the case. The world is a much messier and much more complicated affair than most people ever want to admit. I don't think the things we do are that bad.”

Her gaze meets mine and I sense her defiance again, but something else too; a sadness of sorts, perhaps.

“I think it's bad,” she says very quietly. “I think taking women and girls from their homes and holding them on yachts and sending them to auctions is very bad.”

“Dorian did that, not me.”

“I know, but you do the same sort of work. I just don't think that kind of thing is ever okay.”

“Neither do I.” There’s a sharpness to my tone, and I try to bite it back as her eyes widen. “We don't do anything like that. Ever. Understood?”

“Yes. If you say so.”

Wow, talk about a passive aggressive answer. But I don't want to argue with her. I brought her here to give us a break from the boat. It was a risk, and I made sure we had heavy security, but with the intel I have, it’s a calculated risk that is worth it for her to have some space and some time away. The air on that thing is oppressive, somehow. It's as if the sadness of those trafficked girls is lingering despite them being gone. I would rather have her in my house than on that boat, and I’ll talk to Jacob about it. If we can make the party happen sooner rather than later, while we’re sure the men running the auction don’t know one of their prizes is missing, that would be safer all around.

The server places two small desserts along with the matched final wine on the table, and Adriana's face lights up a little.

“I love sweet food,” she says. “Honestly, I could live on it. Except I’d hear my mother in my head, talking to me, telling me that if I eat nothing but sugary foods, I’ll be malnourished or get rickets or the like.”

If I had my way, I'd feed her sweets all day long. Just to watch her lick her lips the way she does after tasting the lemon dessert. Just to see her eyes flutter closed slowly and then open, her pupils large as she looks at me. Just to hear that soft moan in the back of her throat.

I'd slay her dragons and fight her enemies, and then I'd carry her to a bed of silk sheets and plump pillows and lay her down on it as I worshipped every single inch of her flawless body.

She has a couple of tiny freckles on the back of one hand, but the rest of her skin is pure, creamy perfection. It’s an exquisite canvas of unblemished smoothness. She has the most translucent skin I've ever seen. I want to touch it so badly.

Swallowing, I give in to the urge. I gently turn her hand over palm up, and then I brush the inside of her wrist with my thumb. Soft. I brush her skin again, and we watch each other as I do.

She feels like velvet, she smells like roses, and she looks like perfection.

I allow myself one last lingering touch of her soft skin, my thumb smoothing over the blue veins visible underneath her flesh. Those veins that pump hard and fast in time with her heart and carry the blood around her body. And then suddenly, feeling far too close to her emotionally, I take my hand back. She gently touches two fingers to where my thumb was on her wrist.

I don't know if she's relishing my touch or trying to erase it.

“You haven't tried the chocolate one.” I jerk my chin toward the other desert.

“I was saving it for last.”

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