Page 30 of Tide of Treason
“The maid with the big mouth washed your bear. She presses my sheets, you know. Probably would press yours, if you asked.”
“She already does.”
My eyes narrowed dangerously. “And do you remember to thank her?”
His filthy smile told me he thanked her just fine.
I didn’t like this development very much. The certainty of it thickened the air; heat from an invisible stove, curling the steam from my espresso into shapes that looked suspiciously like middle fingers. And maybe one heart. Squinting bitterly, I decided it was probably just a severed ear.
I set the cup down.
The path to the sink was not narrow, per se. But it felt that way when six feet six inches of cartel muscle stood between me and a glass of water. There was a plate in the sink, an empty glass beside it, and the faucet dripped with the irritating tick of time I didn’t have. I didn’t want the water. I needed it. Something about him made my mouth dry and my judgment worse, and I would’ve rather swallowed bleach than let him see either.
“I need to get by,” I forced out softly, barely audible over the sudden roar in my ears.
Lucius paused, and his eyes lifted to mine, heavy with something that made my stomach tumble. “You’re looking at me like you want to know how many times I jerked off after seeing you in that red dress last week.”
That son of a—
“Four. In case you’re wondering.”
I slapped him.
Or tried to.
He caught my wrist before it landed, pulling it to his mouth and pressing a kiss to my pulse. The touch of his lips was hot fire, and it burned the words to ash on my tongue. Even my retort fizzled out into a sharp release of breath that I refused to acknowledge. When Lucius moved to my left, I shoved past him and grabbed the sink for support. My knuckles turned white on the marble.
“Get out,” I rasped, barely audible.
He slid Giorgio’s autopsy into the folder and clicked it shut with an almost sensual finality. His steps were slow as he moved to the doorway, but he paused, tossing a final barb over his shoulder.
“I’m going to be busy today, so I won’t see you until tomorrow. Wear something pretty for your brother-in-law.”
A slam of the door punctuated his departure.
My pulse pounded behind my eyes. My throat tightened. My hands shook. And my thighs . . . fucking traitors. I gripped the counter until the feeling passed.
It didn’t.
8 | Lucius
23 years old
Present day
The flame ofthe Zippo bloomed golden against the dim, half-mapped lines of my face. Heat curled under my jaw as I brought the cigarette to my lips—third in five minutes, each drag a brittle promise that I wouldn’t fold beneath the thrum in my veins. It was a poor substitute for the little white pills lined up in my drawer, but I’d been cutting my doses down, half of what I used to take.
Progress, Elara called it.
Procrastination was a weak man’s sin. But weak men didn’t survive long enough to learn the taste of their own teeth rattling loose in their skull. I curled a fist in my pocket and ground my molars until they screamed. Kayla Sforza. All iceand blade, that one. Reckless enough to press where she shouldn’t. She was already sniffing around the tunnels, and if she dug deep enough, there would be noprettytomorrow for her to dress up in.
When she’d asked me about my eyesight, I’d been taken aback. I hadn’t expected her to be so well versed in medical jargon. And what I’d told her was wrong. Farsighted? Bullshit. I’d spun a white lie just to watch her talk. She lit up when she got into it, lost that tight, polished composure. Disturbingly, I’d take blindness if it meant she’d never stop looking at me like that.
Smoke shredded my throat on the inhale. Glasses only surfaced when the numbers on my screen started blurring together after a sleepless night. Last thing I needed was a woman with a medical degree looking too hard, though I had a feeling I wouldn’t mind being examined by Doctor Kayla Sforza, even if she was still hung up on a dead idiot. That knowledge crawled under my skin, an itch begging for blood.
I took her hand to see if that velvet-smooth skin would calm the itch crawling beneath my palms, then nearly told her to find another way to relieve whatever restlessness made her fidget on the edge of the stool. When she’d licked her lips, I’d considered putting my mouth on hers, just to see what I tasted. That had been a bad idea, especially in her family fucking kitchen, so I’d focused on going back outside to wrench the Chavelle’s carburetor apart.
I told her four times.
