Page 112 of His Pretty Little Duet

Don't fuck with my little deer.

Don't fuck with my business.

I meet his rich brown eyes. "I want you to know that I respect your loyalty." I nod with a knowing smile and levelling eyes that I can't mask, don't want to. This is my friend. My capo. My enemy... He should seeme.Clay Butcher. The Don of theCosa Nostra. The blood of the Family. "I do. I knew you were a loyal man so I should not be surprised you still are."

He risks a look at my soldiers, shuffling backwards under their gaze and mine. "Boss, what are you doing?"

Those nervous movements twist that knife in my back, and I deadpan. "Only two SD cards?"

"I thought so. I thought so. I searched?—"

"No one knew, Vinny. Just you and my little brother."

"Jimmy had someone watching her. They would have known everything. That can’t be me. I'm always here with you, Boss." His voice spikes with panic. "You can't be serious."

I nod.He's right.There would have been another man watching her.

Another man to hunt.

To drown.

But this man...this man rightin front of me—I exhale, the air hissing through my teeth. "Onlyyouknew thatshedidn't know. For Lee to have given her the SD card, it must have been under the pretence thatshedidn't know what was on it...Loyalty is black and white."

"Clay.Please."

"At least it's not in your back." I draw my Glock and put a round between his eyes.

Fawn

"She has been through hell. So, believe me when I say, fear her when she looks in the fire and smiles." -E.Corona.

I don't remember fallingasleep, but as I jolt from slumber, I'm immediately aware that I'm wet between my thighs. The awfulness of that has me whining softly into the mattress before I even crack my eyes open. I fell asleep for however many minutes or hours, but in that time, my mind was unable to watch over my body.

When I'm asleep, my body isalone.

And now I'm wet.

Why am I wet?

What does that mean?

Curling on my side, the agony in my bones, in my muscles, forces winces through the gaps between my deep hoarse moans. "I'm wet." I burst open with shame. "I'm alone and wet between my legs.Oh, God, why am I wet?"

"You're not alone. You'll never be alone again." His voice is dark and husky, carrying across the room. He isn't close, and Ifeel our distance like literal torture. His skin is a blanket that douses the prickling flesh I'm wrapped in. Flesh that doesn’t feel nice, doesn't seem tofitmy bones anymore.

It.

Doesn’t.

Fit.

I sob, strangled. "I couldn't control my body. I fell asleep. What did I do? I don't want to be fucking wet. This isn't my body. It feelshorrible." I groan, hating the sound of my own voice because it reminds me of how useless it was to help me. To call for help. To scream my pain. To fight back.

Opening my eyes, I feel the burn, the friction of life and light and trauma like sandpaper chaffing me. I stare across the bedroom, fixing my arid eyes on Clay's fists. He's sitting on the black leather chair, watching me. His frame is a solid statue of angry, tight muscles, both hands clenched to the point of bloodless intensity.

"I'm wet," I say again, desperate for his outrage, needing him to be sickened too. To acknowledge that I'm wrong. So wrong.

Training my gaze to his piercing blue eyes, I shake my head through my utter revulsion, betrayal rushing the length of my tongue as I feel a pull to ask him to touch me, hold me, and I hate that desire just as much because that need was built with lies. He lied to me. I lied, too. We both formed this alias, this relationship, based on ulterior motives, but I can't seem to focus on the deceit when the very flesh holding me together feels so horribly wrong. "I don't like the way my skin feels."

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