Page 22 of Tide of Treason
Against every shred of better judgement, I moved closer. Her hand lashed out and wrapped around my throat; not hard enough to choke, but enough to make me feel the pressure of her control. Her palm was soft against my pulse, nails sharp enough to make my skin prickle.
“Open.”
I gritted my teeth, defiance hardening my bones.
A dig of nails. A sting. Pleasure-pain licked up my spine, and my lips parted on a curse. The bottle tipped against my lips, lukewarm water spilling in which I swallowed roughly, refusing to choke under her watch. She pulled back before I’d finished it all, the bottle still a third full. Glaring, I swiped my mouth with the back of my hand.
“Finish it,” she said evenly.
“You’re joking.”
“Now.”
The air grew taut between us, thickened with challenge and friction, until I yanked the bottle from her hand. Tilting it back, I drained every last drop, my throat burning with the effort. When it was empty, I crushed the plastic bastard into a mangled wreck and hurled it into the trash with a scowl.
I couldn’t meet her stare, but I didn’t have to; I knew those eyes were all over me. No disgust showed, only frustration. A small thrill kicked in my gut at knowing I could rattle her just enough to unearth that control she held so tightly.
I licked my bottom lip, rolling my jaw. There was something wrong with me, I thought dimly, to relish in the heat of her temper aimed at me.
But that anger . . . it made her eyes spark, brought a flush of pink to her cheeks. It gave her spine a dangerous curve, brought her closer into my space. No waif-thin frame or delicate bones here. She had meat on her, curves that spoke of real femininity, hips I wanted to grab, thighs that could suffocate, and those tits—Christ. Full, heavy, too damn perfect to be real, but they were, and they were mine to look at. For now.
My cock swelled.
“Stop it,” Kayla said.
“Stop what?”
“Looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you want to bend me over something flat and fuck your grief out.”
“Is that not what you’re here for?” I asked darkly. “To be bent over when I want, how I want, and for whatever I want?”
The glow of fire in her eyes told me I’d crossed a line. It burned brighter as the sharp crack of her palm met my cheek. The sting came second, hot and biting, spreading across my skin. I ran a fingertip over the imprint her palm left behind.
“Mmm,” I mumbled. “Deserved.”
Her teeth sank into that ripe bottom lip, tugging it until it was flushed. “You did.”
A quiet laugh. I lowered my hand, tasting the bitterness on my tongue. This was sick. Fucked up. The kind of twisted that belonged in therapy, but I didn’t feel quite as bad as I should, and that was a problem. What would Elera say if I told her I wanted to get a handprint tattooed right where she’d slapped me? Yet, here I was, reaching for more and winding those dark, silky strands right around my fist. Her breath hissed between clenched teeth as her skull met the cupboard with a muted thud.
“Do it,” I demanded with desperation I was too gone to hide. Leaning in, I inhaled her jasmine scent. One part expensive Italian perfume and two parts rich, warm woman. “Kill me.” My thumb ran an unhurried track along her cheek. “Just like you want to.”
Her eyes flickered with recollection, then a plunge into void. Dropped to fix on the stroke of my thumb against her cheekbone, the slow rasp of my index and middle fingers down the side of her neck.
No clue what spurred me to say it.
Maybe it was the pills.
Or maybe it was me, a sick, masochistic bastard who wanted to push the wrong buttons, get slapped again, anything to drown out the image of Abel’s blood pooling on the pier.
Because looking at Kayla now, knowing that this woman could take me out whenever she so wished . . . I was hooked on the high of being a hair’s breadth away from annihilation. On the slow, insidious realisation that real power wasn’t in the hands of men with money and bloodstained suits, it was violence and pain and danger hidden behind a mask of one of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen.
She caught my wrist, gently removing my hand from its leisurely exploration, but didn’t release it.
“I was eight,” she began, her voice a tranquil blade, “when my papà took me to watch him execute a traitor. I didn’t flinch when the gun went off, and he smiled like I’d done somethinggood, something to make him proud. That was the first time I realised love could be earned, but only if I became as ruthless as he was.” She tilted her head. Dark hair spilled over one shoulder. “So, if you want me to kill you, Lucius, don’t make it sound like a favour. I’ve been unmaking men my entire life. You wouldn’t even be a memory worth keeping.”
