Page 126 of Tide of Treason
His smile was sly and charming at the same time. “I shoot just fine.”
“We’re heading out hunting Friday.” Vito dragged a toothpick between his molars. “There’s a spot I like. Good hideaways, better wildlife. You’d fit right in. This one”—he nodded at me—“used to tag along before she got knocked up. She was good at it, too. Outshot us every time.”
A faint trace of nostalgia curved my lips. “And outdressed you.” I had worn mink-lined gloves and a belt made of crocodile. Vito had worn Carhartt.
Guess who almost shot their own foot?
The answer was not me.
After my cousinsslipped out the door, the quiet didn’t soothe. It felt like the shallow inhale before a scream, the last breath of hope before the knife falls. The sliver of time between “I love you” and “please don’t go.”
Tipping my head back, I let Lucius mouth at my throat, let the water from the shower run down our skin and wash the world clean at our feet. The grope of my hands was a prayer. His rough breaths were gospel.
“Slow,” I told him, sliding my palms over the impossible width of his biceps. Maybe a quarter of each if I stretched. “I want slow.”
“I only know one speed with you,principessa.” He bit thewords into my neck with a groan. Something darkly masculine and possessive. It wasn’t an emotion I’d had much time to dwell on, but with my back against the wall and chest against his, I was starting to understand it.
“Lento,” I repeated, savoring the hiss of the word against my teeth. He didn’t know a lot of Italian, but he knew me well enough to follow context clues. His mouth curved into a smile against my neck, and I felt the whisper of “slow” brush across my skin, a rasp on my pulse.
“Più lento, dolcemente,” I sighed.
“I assume that means, ‘fuck me in the ass, but tenderly.’”
“No. Although I’ll admit I wouldn’t be shocked if your browsing history pointed that way.”
A flicker of genuine offense slashed across that heartbreakingly gorgeous face, but it died pretty quick when he realised he couldn’t actually deny my accusation. Irritation radiated off him, likely down to a cellular level. My next round of sarcasm died on the tip of my tongue, hijacked by a rogue worry: I really should teach Lucius more Italian before the baby arrives.Assumingthe baby arrives, which, if I’m being brutally honest, isn’t guaranteed.
The thought froze me solid, eyes glazing over long enough that Lucius noticed. A warm palm closed over my jaw, thumb rubbing the hinge until my gaze focused again. I’d never cared about the age gap before, not when I assumed we might only get stolen moments, not a future. But staring at him in this intimate flicker of steam and skin and tenderness he never gave to anyone else . . . I felt it.
Lucius was young.
Numerically, sure.
But also existentially. Chronically.
I’d always known he’d be the end of me. Cursed, really. From the second he stepped into my Cipriani office radiating enough rage to light up Midtown, I’d known it in my bones. Back then I told myself he’d never survive another year after that blackout streak, let alone end up engaged to my sister. He hadn’t known he was mine. I did. Now, the needle moved inside me with a vicious exactness. With every day I loved harder, I wanted him less chained. I couldn’t stomach the thought of being his next cage. Unfortunately, that was where things got complicated.
You’re thirty, principessa.
He just buried his father.
And you’re asking him to become one.
Naked in the fog of the bathroom, the water traced lazy lines down my chest, pooling low in the hollow where all my doubts went to rot. The air was syrupy, thick enough to chew, thick enough to drown in if I let myself. Lucius dried off, slung a towel low on his hips, and let out a breath so humorless it cracked something in the mirror.
“Not sure I’m the bipolar one anymore,” he bit out, shaking his head. “I can’t keep up,principessa. Nearly lost my mind over you, and I’m here now, aren’t I? I need you to tell me what you want from me before letting me back into your bed again.”
The truth stung in its simplicity. I wanted to be thereason he stayed, never the reason he couldn’t leave. I didn’t want to clip his wings just to pin them to my wall and call it devotion. I wanted him untamed and undone, mine in all the ways that didn’t require captivity. I wanted the chaos of him, and I wanted him free enough to destroy me if he ever woke up bored.
Selfish?
Maybe.
But I’d spent three decades spinning selfishness into gold, and I’d built a throne on the bones of my own hunger. Survival was always a little bit greedy.
Two hours later, after Lucius left for work, my phone vibrated.
Rafael:He’s quiet. Focused. Keeps muttering your name under his breath. I think he’s gone.
