Page 131 of Tide of Treason
The sling was falling apart. Again. He’d insisted on doing it himself, manly pride and all that, which I tolerated about as much as I tolerated spiders. It was crooked now, the bandage digging a line into his skin, and the whole arm hung a little off, a little loose, the same way his guard dropped when I pressed close enough. When I slipped behind him, he didn’t bother to pretend indifference. He sighed quietly instead and let his head loll against my stomach, eyes closing as I slid myarms around his chest, cinching tight.
“You should let me fix it,” I whispered into his curls.
His voice rumbled against my belly. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not.” I brushed the sling’s edge, testing the heat of his skin, how tense the bicep was beneath. “If you let it heal wrong, I’ll have to get creative with punishments.”
One eye cracked open. “Like what?”
Running a finger up the side of his throat, I traced the line of his jaw, then nipped his ear. “I could withhold orgasms.”
A groan. “You wouldn’t.”
“Would I?” With a push, I rolled Lucius’s stool away from the laptop, ignoring his mumbled curses, and guided him to sit facing me fully, stepping boldly between his knees. He watched me, a grin spreading as I fumbled with the knots.
“I could break a lot of laws for you, Kayla.”
“I know.” I cinched the sling, maybe a touch too tight, just to prove a point. “But right now, you’re going to let me break your pride and redo this properly.”
A dry laugh rumbled from his chest. “Only ‘cause you’re bossy as fuck.”
He was still shirtless—always was, lately—and it felt obscene to see so much bronze skin under my hands. The scar on his ribs begged for my tongue, the dusting of hair on his chest for my nails. I finished the sling and leaned in, ghosting a kiss over his temple. His lips warmed against my collarbone in response.
That same evening, after I’d half-stolen his omelet withgreedy fingers and he’d pretended he didn’t notice, my phone buzzed across the marble counter, dragging me from my pleasantly domestic bubble.
It was Viviana.
First came the photo: She and Evelyn on a blanket in the Jardin des Tuileries. Bare feet. Messy hair. A bottle of wine between them and a hamster napping on my sister’s stomach. Joy pooled at the edges of the frame, begging to overflow.
Vivi:I’ve never been this happy. I want you to have this too, sorella.
I looked up, meeting Lucius’s dark, questioning eyes.
Maybe, just maybe, it was my turn to begreedy too.
38 | Lucius
24 years old
Present day
“You gonna takethe shot or pose for a calendar?” Francesco muttered, dragging the words through a mouthful of sunflower seeds. I had the rifle balanced across my thighs, scope aligned with a buck about sixty yards out, my knees aching in grass that came up to my belt.
“You realise most mammals can’t see red the way we do, right?”
Kayla, last night. Arms crossed. Stomach rounding. All attitude and half a medical lecture because I’d asked her if deer were colorblind.
“They don’t see red, Lucius. They see movement. Reflection. That’s what gives you away.” She tapped the bridge of my nose. “Don’t blink too much. It shifts the shadows.Disrupts their perception of distance.” Then, offhandedly: “Maybe I should come along. I’d be the only one here who understands ocular dominance.”
I’d growled a no.
“Because I’m pregnant?”
“Because I’m distracted enough already.”
Blinking away her voice, I pulled the trigger. Recoil rocked back into my shoulder with a satisfying kick. The buck dropped.
“About fuckin’ time,” Francesco said, launching another shell into the snowbank’s white jaw.
