Page 69 of A Pawn in the Game
I know. My brain knows it’s a stupid idea. But when did my brain ever come on top when overwhelmed by an emotion?
“Sorry if I disturbed you. You can go back to sleep,” he grumbles.
I nod and turn to my side, still looking at my new watch, even though I was hoping he’d lie next to me. I try to get comfortable enough to fall asleep but my brain’s simply not having it. Now that he’s here, sleep just doesn’t seem interesting enough. A rustle sounds from the other side of the room, and, on a sigh, I give up on the idea of sleeping. At least for now. I lower the covers to my waist, turning to my back.
He stares at his phone, his brows knitted, a bottle of liqueur placed on the small coffee table Ivan brought yesterday. Without lifting his gaze, he grabs the bottle, downing a long sip of the transparent liquid. The bottle freezes in the air as his eyes connect to mine.
My mouth turns up into an awkward smile, before I lick my lips, steeling myself to ask, “Can I join you?” I glance at the armchair next to him.
His gaze follows mine. “Be my guest.”
I jump up from the bed, making my way to the chair. “Oh, is that what I am? A guest?” I say playfully, but his jaw clenches. “It was a joke.”
“But it’s the truth, isn’t it?” His gaze turns dark. “We can joke all we want. But you’re not here willingly.”
“Do you think I forgot about it?”
“No,” he scoffs. “But it’s complicated. If it wasn’t, you wouldn’t be myguestanymore.”
“I know. You have your dad’s death to avenge. In a way, I admire that.” My gaze drops to the side. “Maybe focusing onrevenge would have been more adaptive than whatever the hell I did after my mom died.” My throat constricts, my tear ducts filling with water.
He drops his head back, dragging a hand over the back of his neck. “It’s not that…”
I don’t want to cry anymore. I’m so fucking tired of it. So I grab the bottle he placed back on the table and stop him mid-sentence. “Can I have a sip?”
“I thought you didn’t drink.”
The heavy scent of ethanol floods my nose. “Whew, this might be strong enough to disinfect my inner wounds.”
A deep laugh rumbles out of him. My lungs expand with the knowledge I made him laugh. “Go ahead,mila. Try it.”
He stares at me intently, waiting for my reaction. I swallow my spit and lift the bottle to my lips. Closing my eyes, I lean back to pour some of the liquid into my mouth.
A fiery ball of alcohol travels through my mouth, my esophagus, and my stomach. Fuck, I hope it burns less on its way out. I smack my tongue a few times, but the taste lingers, if you can even call it that. Because it tastes exactly how you expect rubbing alcohol to taste like. Like something you shouldn’t be putting inside your body. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, as if that will help scrub it away, before opening my eyes.
Luka stares at me expectantly, with a smirk that makes me weak in the knees. “Good?”
“Yup.” A cough. “Perfect.”
He lets out a chuckle.
“What is this anyway?”
“Rakia.Šljivovica, to be exact. It’s a Croatian fruit spirit.”
“Fruit? What kind of fruit would this be?”
Another chuckle escapes me before he responds, “Plums.”
My mouth parts in shock. “I wouldn’t guess it in years.”
He wraps his tattooed fingers around the throat of the bottle, leaning it toward me. “Want another?”
“No, thank you,” I respond, and he shakes his head, smiling.
He downs a large sip, as if he’s drinking water, and I watch his Adam’s apple move.
“You really like it, huh?” I ask.
