Page 6 of Beautiful & Dirty

I learned very quickly that the way to succeed in a world where you can’t trust anyone is to keep your true feelings close to your chest. You have to hide your desires and needs — the things that make your heart race, for good or bad — in a lockbox inside yourself, because the minute you expose those soft things to the outside world, they can be used against you. I know this, because I’ve done it. I waited three years to make my move on Flavia’s father, watching from the sidelines, catching every slip of the tongue and unguarded moment, and waiting for the perfect moment to wield those weapons — children, mistresses, secrets — at exactly the right time. It’s how I took Flavia’s father down and dozens of men before him.

And what do I have to show for it twenty years later? A throne that chafes more and more each day, a gunshot wound that wakes me up with an ache each morning, and a shocking desire for this girl who’s too young for me that I can’t do anything about.

Hanging above it all is the surefire knowledge that my time is limited. Nothing in this world is new, and transfers of power are always bloody. Someone is going to come for my crown again, and soon enough, they will succeed. And because my world is all dark intrigue, I can’t help but wonder if this moment — the sudden appearance of an American tourist, who seems too innocent to be real — is the first paving stone on the road to my downfall.

I think all of that as she says my name, and I decide not to care.

I open the bottle of wine, and she watches me with curious, hungry eyes.

“Do you drink wine?” I ask her.

She nods and bites her lip. “But I don’t know anything about it. I’m barely out of college, and I can’t afford anything like good wine, but I like the way it tastes. I think.”

I wish she hadn’t told me that. I knew she was young, but I don’t want to know specifics, so I force myself not to do the math, not to figure out exactly how much older I am. “What kind of wine do you normally drink?” I ask.

She grins and seems somehow more and less innocent than before. “Whatever box my friends and I could afford when we were pre-gaming.”

My hand stills on the corkscrew. “Box? Pre-gaming?”

She cringes, and it makes me smile; there’s no artifice here, and it’s so refreshing. “You don’t want to know,” she says. “Let’s just assume I don’t know anything about wine, because I really don’t.”

“Would you like a lesson?” I ask.

I hadn’t meant for that to sound so sexual, but the words break from my mouth before I can think them through. I never do that. It’s foolish, and I can’t afford that kind of slip, but as soon as the words leave my mouth, I hear the innuendo, and I see it dawn on her.

Her eyes widen, and her lips thin in a sensual press. I want to taste that expression.

And then she whispers again, “Yes. Please.”

I have to take a deep breath as those words dig into me like hooks. I know that I’ll conjure the sound of that soft breath just as soon as I’m alone and can touch myself in peace, but that’s for later.

For now, I grab her wine glass and pour a taste for her. I place the glass on the table in front of her and then pour myself the same.

I nod at the glass, and Shae follows my lead. She picks it up by the stem with delicate fingers and adorably perfect short red nails.

She leans forward. “Is this where we smell it?” she whispers with an eager smile on her face.

“I thought you didn’t know anything about wine?” I ask her with a smile that feels so delicious in its lack of familiarity as muscles in my cheeks I haven’t used in forever engage.

She shrugs adorably. “I’ve seen movies.”

“Ah, I see. You want to swirl the wine gently in your glass, letting the bouquet blossom.”

She smiles and nods and then sucks her bottom lip into her mouth, concentrating as she follows my directions.

I forget about my own wine. I don’t care about the depth of color or the taste. What I care about is the way Shae’s bright white teeth bite into the soft flesh of her lip, and the small crease that appears across the bridge of her nose as she inhales the wine in her glass. And then I care a lot about the way she looks up at me through the fan of her eyelashes for my next instruction. I care about what I want to do with that eager attention and that mouth and those fingers.

“What do you smell?” I ask her in a rough voice. My chest is tight with need.

“It’s kind of…” She closes her eyes and licks her lips.

My fingers tighten on the stem of the wine glass, and I’m in danger of breaking it.

“It’s kind of fruity. Earthy. Are these words people use?” she asks playfully with a cheeky smile on her lips.

I don’t smile, not even to scare people. I know some men — butchers — who laugh and tell jokes and smile so much that their expressions don’t slip even when they’re slitting your throat. It’s cruel and effective; but that’s not who I am. I don’t want people to get comfortable with me. I don’t want to lure anyone into complacency. I like to be upfront. When I walk in a room, I want my enemies to know that I’ll kill them if I deem it necessary. And I want my friends to know it, too.

But Shae makes me smile. “Yes,” I tell her, “these are words people use to describe wine. Is that what you smell?”

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