Page 76 of Tide of Treason
He answered by scraping his teeth over my pulse point. Wet heat followed, his tongue mapping out the throb of my heartbeat while faint stubble razored a warning into my skin. A sound coiled in my chest, too much like a moan, so I swallowed it down, tasting salt and something purely Lucius on my tongue long after he’d lifted his mouth.
His eyes trapped me where I stood. “Would you believe me if I said I got you a birthday present?”
Reflexively, I shook my head.
He dug into a pocket with leisurely menace. “You wound me, Kayla.” Something cool landed in my palm.
Experience had taught me that gifts from Lucius ranged from visually obscene diamonds to, well, actual obscenities. It also didn’t help matters that a few days ago I cracked his head open like a party piñata. Given that fact, I peeled back the paper with a caution I usually reserved for live grenades. Tissue paper crinkled, revealing a night-black envelope rimmed in arrogant gold.
Flipping it, I braced for a severed finger or a hit list with my name etched in blood. Instead, my gaze settled on neat script slashing across a thick, matte card:
Exclusive Optics Lab—Tomorrow, 10 A.M.
I looked up. Lucius was already watching me, the weight of his hand dragging slow from my calf to the back of my heel, toying with the strap of my stiletto.
I managed, “What the hell is this?”
“An invitation.”
“To what? A career change? Because last I checked, I already had a job, and it’s not exactly in”—I squinted at the card—“ophthalmic lens advancements.”
He smiled and tongued the inside of his cheek. “You talk about optometry like you still love it.”
My pulse did an irritated roll as the pieces slotted into place. The conversation in the kitchen. My question. His answer.
Myopia?
Moderate.
Son of a bitch . . .
“Wow. You absolute liar. You don’t need glasses.”
“Never said I did.”
“You let me ramble about optometry like a fucking idiot.”
“I like when you ramble.”
Oh, fuck me sideways with a rusty spoon. He liked hearing me talk? About my old occupation? No chance he was that pathetic. Unless he was a glutton for punishment, in which case he should’ve just asked for an eye exam instead.
Optometry.
The science of sight.
I’d spent years obsessed with it, addicted to the sheer precision of it all: the neatness, the clean, indisputable logic. The way light refracted through the cornea, how the shape of a lens could determine the difference between clarity and blindness. I could stare into someone’s pupils and see the truth they couldn’t hide. Dilated with lust, contracted with fear, clouded with cataracts or sharp as a blade. It was the one place I could still feel like I had control, not drowning in the swamp of my own fucked-up existence.
“I’m not going.” I shoved the card at his chest.
“You are.” Lucius said it harsh.
I let myself look at him, really look, and let the truth bleed through.
“Why?”
“To watch you light up. You shine when you talk lenses. I want the show.”
My chest tightened. Inside, a pink-lined storm raged.
