Page 72 of Claim Me
His eyebrows arched and another wry smile crooked his lips as he watched me slide into his shirt. While a scent of smoke lingered, his fragrance remained. The thought of smelling like him kept my nipples hard.
“A perfect dress,” he commented, taking over buttoning the front.
I twirled in a circle, pushing him away gently. When had I ever felt this playful? “I’ll get plates. Wanna watch a movie?”
His smirk shifted into a full grin, surprise capturing his expression.
“Why not. I’ll choose.”
I was shocked he’d agreed.
“Not a chance, buster. I have the perfect selection in mind.” I was light on my feet, still breathless as I rushed from the room. How strange to feel such a deep array of emotions, able to mask the sorrow, which was what my mind and soul desperately needed.
The grief would return. It was only hiding in the darkness, waiting for when I’d be able to handle the ugly truth. But for now, I’d allow myself to enjoy the moment.
I gathered plates and napkins, placing them on the pizza box. When I walked into the living room, he was staring at the music I’d written. Without asking a single question, he lifted his head and the emotion I witnessed was powerful.
And I continued to whisper the word he’d said before, the single syllable a distant yet sweet echo.
Mine…
Yet in my heart, I knew that wasn’t true.
We weren’t destined to be together.
CHAPTER 21
Kazimir
The Godfather.
I had to laugh. Marissa’s choice of movie the night before continued to amuse me. Maybe she’d thought I could gain some pointers about being in a syndicate. Why was it that my cock twitched while my mind processed another rousing round of wicked thoughts? Maybe she’d wanted to see my reaction to the violence in her choice, especially the scene with the horse’s head in the bed. She hadn’t flinched when the vivid imagery had unfolded.
She’d been too mesmerized watching me while munching on pizza. As if I was that interesting. I’d found myself ignoring the movie including the violence, preferring to notice how well her voluptuous body filled the stiff linen of my shirt.
When she’d started asking questions while on her second glass of wine, I’d been even more amused.
“How many people have you killed?”
“Too many to count on both hands and both feet.”
Her eyes opened wide. “Really?”
I gave her a look while lifting my eyebrows. “No.” The truth was, up to the recent events, I’d killed one man, an asshole who’d come at my father with a machete. A freaking machete. I’d shot him in the head without a second thought, my training kicking in. Had I felt any remorse? No.
“What does it feel like taking a life?”
“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to.”
She gave me the same stern look I’d given her. “I asked you a question.”
“How does it feel?” I’d thought about it before answering, as no one had ever asked me that. In fact, I’d been advised never to rethink the kill even for a moment. Having a conscience had no place in our world. There was the great word again. World.
“Like feeling a noose tightening around your neck from the hand of God.” What I hadn’t said was the feeling was a clear indication I was going to hell. But killing the four men determined to take what belonged to me had felt glorious.
What kind of man did that make me?
She’d studied me as if a specimen on a glass slide. Then she’d done the sweetest thing, another reminder, another indication she was an innocent creature in a sea of violence.
