Page 72 of Dance of Ruin

“I do not looktussled,” I huff again. “And if I do, it’s because I just came from the hospital, ass. I went to visit Bianca.”

He holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Fine, fine,” he sighs as he takes another pull from his cigarette before glancing at me. “Her giant husband there?”

I nod.

“Man.” Vaughn shakes his head, grinning. “I seriously don’t see how they conceived a child. Like, from a purely mechanical standpoint.”

I snort.

“I’m serious!” he laughs. “I feel like it would be like a St. Bernard or a Great Dane fucking a Chihuahua.”

“Coke can?” I offer, raising a brow.

Vaughn laughs uproariously. “Twocoke cans. Stacked.”

I’m still wheezing with laughter when he ambushes me out of nowhere.

“So,” he says conversationally, “wanna tell me whoyou’refucking?”

I almost choke as my breath catches in my throat, and I feel my face throb with heat as I stumble for a response.

“E-excuse me?” I stammer.

Smooth, self.

Vaughn smirks. “Don’t play innocent, baby girl. It doesn’t suit you.”

“I’m not—” I begin, but he cuts me off.

“You’ve got that look. Like a sex glow. The I-haven’t-slept-properly-because-someone-ruined-my-circadian-rhythm-with-their-dickkind of look.”

I vainly try to will the flame in my cheeks away. “You’re delusional.”

“Am I?” he singsongs. “I see bruises.”

I stiffen. “What?—”

He steps closer, tugging on my sleeve before I can stop him and yanking it up to show the slight bruising from the other day in Nico’s office.

“Nice,” he says approvingly. “Rope? Or is that silk?”

“Vaughn!”

I yank my arm away.

Silk, for the fucking record…

He just laughs, unbothered. “Relax, you know I don’t judge. I just want to know who’s responsible for the ‘freshly ravaged’ vibe you’re rocking.”

“Thereisno ravaged vibe,” I hiss.

“Sure.” His gaze drops lower, zeroing in on the hem of my skirt. “Bet you’ve got more bruises under here.”

He reaches teasingly toward the hem.

I bat his hand away. “Don’t you fuckingdare!” I laugh.

He grins wider, fingers feeling again for the edge of my skirt. “Come on. Bet you fifty bucks you’ve got handprints on your?—”

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