Page 77 of His Dark Vendetta

She stared at me, satisfied, eager, and trusting, waiting for what came next.

“Are you hungry?” I asked, and the question moved through the air like we were underwater, the words slow and surreal.

She wrinkled her brow and blinked. “Yes, actually.”

I dropped the washcloth and ran my hand up her leg, from her knobby knee to her stomach. “I’ll make us dinner.” I traced my fingertips over the scars that crisscrossed her abdomen, wondering when we’d pull out of this underwater trance.

She watched my finger, mesmerized, until I stopped over one of the entry wounds. She sat up, scooted forward, and threaded her fingers into my hair, running her nails over my scalp. I shivered, and my eyes fluttered closed.

“What are we having?” she asked.

“What would you like?”

“I like Italian,” she said.

I fought a smile. “Get dressed. I’ll be downstairs.” I leaned forward and kissed her neck just below her ear, wishing I could have another type of meal. “You’re due a third orgasm. I haven’t forgotten.”

My lips lingered on her neck. It felt intimate and beautiful. And wrong. Because she loved me, and there was no space left in my heart for love. Revenge occupied every inch of its dark chambers. But when she dragged her fingernails across my scalp, I kissed her there again, needing her to feel the same fullness in her heart that I wanted to feel in mine.

I pulled away and swatted her on the hip. “Let’s go.”

Siobhán walked across the hall to her bedroom. I tugged on a pair of joggers and made my way downstairs, dazed and confused. We’d crossed a line, and whatever happened next, there was no turning back.

ChapterTwenty-Four

Siobhán

The rustle of plastic and the clank of pots and pans traveled up the stairs. I padded down them dressed in leggings, a sweatshirt, and post-sex euphoria. My cheeks were warm, the flush Luca put there likely brightening my pale complexion. I fanned my face; I needed to play it cool.

I combed my hair with my fingers, taming the rat’s nest into a ponytail, and took the tie from between my teeth to fix it in place. But my insides remained a tangled mess. More than usual.

Half of me wanted to flit across the kitchen with the corners of my mouth pinned to my ears in a blissful grin. The other half wanted to smack the first half upside the head and remind her that she’d been kidnapped and nearly killed. By a player. And not just any player. A player in the Mafia who’d broken her heart and had a vendetta against her family. Not exactly a situation where a rational person should be glowing.

I stepped off the stairs and into the kitchen. The soft light of the early-evening sun and the fresh breeze through the French doors set the stage, but Luca stole the show. His role? Domestic god.

Half his hair was tied back the way he wore it the morning I found him playing the violin. His fitted joggers sat low on his hips, and the naked expanse of his muscled back flexed with each item he placed on the counter. Goosebumps prickled my skin. Pleasant, happy, hopeful goosebumps.

“What’s all this?” I stopped behind him and peeked around his shoulder at the array of ingredients and bowls. Behind me, two plastic Starmarket bags sat on the island. “And when did you get groceries?”

“I told you I could cook.” He bent down and retrieved the colander from the lower cabinet. “The groceries I got on my way home. That’s why I was late. But I left them in the car when I saw Agent Asshole.”

“Agent Asshole.” I snickered. “Perfect.”

“Right?” He lifted his chin toward the island. “Make yourself useful and open the wine.”

All that was left in the plastic bags was a package of fresh pasta and a bottle of red. I placed the items on the island. “Bags?”

“Inside the door to the garage. On your right.”

I took the bags to the garage, shoved them in the bag hanging on the inside of the door, and walked back into the kitchen to the cabinets next to the fridge where Luca kept his wine glasses. He diced a slab of pancetta on the other side of the sink. I watched him for a moment, holding a glass in each hand, struck by the novelty of the scene unfolding. So domestic. So normal. So not us.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing. Just admiring your technique.”

He snorted. “The corkscrew is in the drawer with the utensils.”

“Got it.” I snapped out of frozen disbelief and went to work on the bottle of Merlot. “What are we having?”

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