Page 88 of Tide of Treason
Niccolò leaned back in his chair, arms sprawled, and gave Lucius a death stare so pointed it could’ve split atoms. I didn’t blame him, really. I wasn’t giving him my body anymore, and that had to sting when the man who stole his favorite toy didn’t even have to try.
Later that night,I opened the front door and let him in. No knock. No preamble. He stepped into my penthouse, secured the lock behind him, and looked at me like I was a bad idea he couldn’t stop having.
Turning, I flicked the stove off. “Hungry?”
Lucius leaned against the counter, arms folded tight across his chest. “You don’t cook this late.”
“I made an exception.”
His gaze dropped. A plate of ricotta pastries sat between us, still warm from the oven. The corner of his mouth tugged. “From the place on Mulberry?”
“From my own hands, you thankless fuck.”
He dragged a thumb over his lower lip, and the smallest, laziest smile threatened his composure.
“Eat,” I told him, sliding into a chair opposite.
He did.
Quietly.
He ate like a man who knew hunger, who had once swallowed down scraps with a quiet, starving reverence. With every mouthful, I watched his shoulders ease, something fierce and unnamable tangling in my chest. It was getting out of hand, this fixation. A sickness with no antidote, unless the cure was surrender.
When his plate was empty, and mine was not, Lucius asked why I’d done it. I offered a smile and told him I’d simply been thinking of ways to shut him up for five minutes, that I found a full mouth worked miracles. Of course, my plan was doomed to fail miserably from the start since his mouth ended up on mine, and it wasn’t shut in the least.
My brain, for all its logic and Ivy League degrees, decided the best course of action was to let him in.
Let him in everywhere, in ways that had nothing to do with open doors or naked skin.
He mouthed at my throat, hands slid up the backs of my thighs, palms rough and hot. Bronze skin gilded in city light, olive against gold, old blood and new sins, something ugly and beautiful tangled in the dark. When he found the edge of my panties, he tugged the elastic with two fingers and let it snapagainst my skin. My head fell back against the chair, a broken little sigh slipping free as he shoved the chair back with his boot and hauled me onto the table.
Cold marble kissed the backs of my thighs. Pastry crumbs crushed beneath my palms. The ricotta pastries I’d slaved over were collateral damage now—sweet cream and crumbling dough smeared into the countertop when Lucius forced my legs apart and buried his face between them.
My hands slid into his curls, clutching tight. He groaned. Out of the corner of my eye, one perfect sfogliatella waited, untouched in its paper cradle. I stared at it like it might offer me a way out of this mess, a distraction, a lifeboat of sugar and carbs. But the moment Lucius flattened his tongue and gave one long, punishing lick, the lifeboat capsised and I sank.
25 | Lucius
23 years old
Present day
She was gone.Not “ran away in shame” gone, more like “had already gotten up, conquered Rome, and was halfway through filing someone’s murder paperwork” gone.
A low groan escaped my throat as I rolled my neck and wandered toward the smell of citrus and toast.
Kayla stood in the kitchen, pouring something that belonged nowhere near a human mouth into a crystal glass. It was acid-green, bright enough to burn retinas, poisonous-looking shit that didn’t surprise me in the least. Normal wasn’t in this woman’s vocabulary. Still . . . Jesus. She was beautiful enough to punch a hole through your chest. Painfully fucking perfect. A sculpture of elegance and cool detachment wrapped in midnight fabric that worshipped the curve of her waist andbrushed against her ankles.
Something in my expression amused her.
“Before you ask. Celery, kale, ginger, and a shot of wheatgrass. Good for the heart.”
“Hm.” I thumbed my jaw. “Looks like Shrek’s cum.”
Unbothered, she downed it, radioactive sludge and all, rinsed the glass, left no trace. She was taking care of herself, I noticed. Healthy shit. Extra vitamins. I should have known something was off, but all I saw was discipline. Always so fucking composed, the ice to my gasoline. I thought, fuck, this is what I need. Sleeping with this woman had already done more for my mental health than four years of therapy and three different prescriptions.
“If that’s you rested,” she said, “I’d hate to meet your sleep-deprived version.”
A humorless sound scraped up my throat. I worked a kink from my shoulder, knuckles whitening against marble. “Funny you assume I slept.”
