Page 72 of His Pretty Little Duet

One snip.

Landon drops the pliers and gargles on his pain. I reach down and retrieve them, grab a hold of his cock, and snip into it. Clipping the final fleshly thread, I watch the fatty column slaps the floor. Landon passes out. I nod at Vinny, absent of even a slip of remorse. Vinny drags the knife along Landon's throat. Blood sprays through the webbing of veins as his carotid arteries are severed.

Then there is quiet.

I glance over at young Jake—his head rolls with nausea—and then back at Landon—his neck flaps open. But all I can see is a little deer, terrified and confused, as she stares at blood and cum dripping down between her pretty white thighs.

"So, Jake," I say, turning to smile at him. "Are you sorry for what you have done?"

Fawn

Aurora leadsme down the hallway towards double doors with fancy square grooves carved into the polished dark wood. She pushes the long silver handle down and steps inside, holding the door open for me. "You should sleep in here tonight, Fawn. Don't be nervous."

Immediately, I know whose room it is as the intoxicating scent of his cologne, sweet cigars, and warm male flesh wraps around me in a carnal way. My heart picks up pace. I stare at the wooden four-post bed, standing royally in the centre of the expansive space. A large private lounge area with black leather couches and a desk are in opposite corners.

My breath catches at the window, splaying the entire length of the west wall. It is too clear. I fear I may throw myself off the edge and land three storeys below.

I force my feet forward. "Why?"

"Your room is too far away from him. He requires you to be in here tonight."

"But this is..." I blink at his room, all dark, all masculine, all very Clay Butcher. Twisting to face her as she holds the door open, I say, "But you're his wife. Don't you?—"

"I'm his business partner and, I like to believe, his friend. But we are not lovers, Fawn. Our relationship is based on the archaic truth that I am a woman and without Clay, I am nothing but a bargaining chip for theCosa Nostra.With him, I am his partner. And I get a say in this empire my father loved more than me and my sisters." She sighs, shaking her head a little, seemingly exasperated by her own words. "Go to sleep. I wouldn’t wait up for him."

Her words make me sad for her. "Why does he want me here?" I say before I can retract the question. Usually, I would just take the crumb that I'm offered, but for some reason, I know a crumb won't be enough this time. I know I want him. Waiting for my father or not, I want to stay here—with him. I don't have the luxury to entertain the idea that there may be a commitment on his end. Intimacy, yes. So much more than I ever knew existed, but this is another level now. Sleeping in his bed... it terrifies me.

Because... I think I love him.

"Perhaps you should ask him yourself," she says as she leaves, closing the door behind her.

Left alone, I strip off my clothes and change into my new white silk nightgown. It feels like heaven on my skin. When I switch the light off, the small downlights immediately glow to provide the perfect light-to-dark ratio.

I crawl into his bed—his bed—fanning my fingers out to touch the smooth black material, the mattress barely moving beneath my weight. All I can think about as I curl into a ball on one side, knowing it is his side, the scent of him on the pillow giving it away, is that this means something. Being in his bed, without him, means something big.

Suddenly, I bolt up, remembering my dreamcatcher. I've never slept without it. Jumping off the bed, missing its comfort immediately, I rush back down the halls and up the stairs. Thepassages seemingly go on and on, but when I finally get to my room, I pluck the dreamcatcher off the bedpost and rush back to his room, not analysing why I'm running.

In his room, I dangle the beautiful web on one of the posts and nest above the covers on his side of the bed. The ambient air is the perfect temperature. I close my eyes slowly, blinking the unfamiliar corner of the room from my sight until...

The splashing of water wakes me from my dreamless slumber. I bat my eyes open to find the same unfamiliar room, the same sleek sheets, the same perfectly firm mattress, but I'm not alone. I flip over to see a glowing rectangle around the bathroom door. The sound of water rolling off a body sails from the shower, hitting the tiles beneath.

My lungs fill with an anxious breath as I slide off the mattress and walk over to the door. I just want to test it. Twisting the handle to see if it is locked even though I am sure it— The handle twists in my tiny grip, and I push the door open, not allowing myself time to rethink this.

As I walk into the elaborate ensuite, the scent of sandalwood and citrus cloaks me. Candles, set up in threes on a deep ledge running the span of two walls, dance in the light breeze from the exhaust fan. His house staff must spend a lot of time creating this perpetual scene of luxury for him because I don't see a man like Clay Butcher wasting his time on lighting candles if only for himself.

The steam parts to reveal him under the faucet. Feeding his hands through his hair, dragging them down his face, his back to me, he is yet to notice me. The thick strands look longer and darker under the spray, deliciously so.

I should make a noise.

Look away, even.

But I can't.

I stifle a toe-curling moan at the sight of his taut round arse and his long, strong legs, compactly carved into valleys around each muscle. He's tall. Athletic. His muscles pulse as he washes himself, and mine tremble to behold him.

"Did I give you permission to come in here?" he asks without turning to look at me. When I don't immediately answer, he turns to face me. Icy-blue eyes find mine, his expression shifting from dark to outright carnal, as he strokes the inked grooves at his eight-pack. His abdomen twitches as he lowers his attention. My eyes pan down to watch him wash the length hanging between his thighs.

My heart pounds hard. My lips are suddenly arid. "I can't believe that was inside me," I whisper to myself more than to him, pressing my thighs together as I feel myself weep from my core. Clearing my throat, I say, "Are you turning me away, Sir?"

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