Page 86 of Tide of Treason
I was going to pin Lucius to me.
“—in just fiveeasy steps!”
I squinted at the mounted TV screen. Some chirpy, collagen-filled influencer was grinning at me, demonstrating leg lifts in a pair of fluorescent leggings.
“That’s right; you too can get that bikini body you’ve always wanted. And you know what else? I guarantee it will turn your man’s head with one look.”
Viviana, draped over the opposite counter with a peeled mango in one hand and a butter knife in the other, scoffed. “You should sue them for false advertising, Kay. You’ve had a bikini body for years, and it hasn’t done shit for your love life.” She sucked a piece of fruit off the blade, slow, amused, dark eyes gleaming. “Maybe the real issue is that you’re barking up the wrong tree.”
“And what tree should I be barking up?”
She tossed the mango pit into the sink. “One that doesn’t have a dick.”
“Not my style, Vivi.”
She rolled her eyes, like that was predictable. Maybe it was. I liked my dick thick, mean, and attached to a man I shouldn’t be entertaining. Sue me.
“Pervertita.”
“That’s not fair.”
“It’s the truth.” She gave a careless shrug that set her linen sleeve sliding to the elbow, bracelets chiming. “Papà would’ve bent over backward to tie us to the Cartel through you instead of me. You could’ve had him from the start.”
My jaw locked. “That’s not what happened.”
“No.” Her agreement came soft. “Because you wouldn’t let it.”
My sister had always been sharper than people realised—razor edges hiding in watercolor softness. In that second, I saw recognition bloom behind Viviana’s doe eyes, and it needled under my skin. I pivoted, pretending interest in the stack of mail I’d abandoned on the far counter: power bill, Architectural Digest (Mamma’s name still on the label, naturally), a polite threat from the bank, and a fresh envelope stamped with the gilded crest of the U.S. Department of Defense. I slid that one beneath my checkbook, right beside the receipt from the OB-GYN visit.
“Why him?”
“He’s good in bed.” I shoved the DoD letter into my purse.
A cheap answer.
Because “good in bed” wasn’t enough to explain the way he lodged himself under my skin like shrapnel, carving his initials into the soft parts of me I thought had long since hardened. It didn’t explain why I was already reworking entire strategies in my head, shoving my entire life into some warped Rubik’s cube where the final picture was him, whether he fucking liked it or not. And it sure didn’t justify why the thought of him with another woman made something inside me hiss for blood.
Viviana hummed, scraping a nail over the marble countertop. “Yeah, I bet he is,” she mused, like she was tryingto imagine it but couldn’t quite get there. “He’s sweet. And I think I’d be able to tell if he was a sadist.”
“He’s not.” Not with her, anyway.
A silence stretched between us.
“Oh,” she exhaled, mango-sweet breath. “You like him.”
I launched the letter opener. Steel flashed, splitting a curl of her hair before thunking harmlessly into the cabinet.
“Youlikehim,” she repeated, slow and delighted. “Jesus Christ, Kay. What’s it like?”
“What’s what like?”
“Having human emotions.”
I tore open the bank envelope with my teeth, tasted glue and humiliation. “Don’t know. Maybe you should ask someone who does.”
The air prickled.
Viviana drummed her nails—one-two-three—eyes narrowed in thoughtful empathy she had no right to aim at me, of all people. “Relax,” she said finally, washing mango from her fingers beneath the gold faucet. Sunlight poured through the window, setting her in a saintly haze. “Lucius doesn’t sleep with other women. Not unless I invite them in.”
