Page 6 of The Butcher's Wife
Then, right next to the car, she twists toward me and sucks on my neck. Her hot, wet tongue flicks out, shooting an unexpected jolt of heat through me.
I stumble. “Serafina, what the fu?—”
She bites down.Hard.
“What the fuck!”
I jerk and tear her off me like I’m pulling a bulldog from a rope and toss her against the passenger door. She bangsinto it with a grunt.
I’d feel a lot worse about hurting her if she weren’t bearing a mouthful of my blood at me like a crazed cannibal.
Her eyes flick from me to the house as I tilt my head to the side and touch a fingertip to the bite mark she left. Shit stings, and I know it’s going to leave a scar.
I ought to yell at her, but that uncertainty from earlier stops me.
I’ve always known Serafina to play by the rules and to do as she’s told. She’d never dirty herself with violence, and even though she’s a good person, she wouldn’t put herself in danger for a near-stranger like Marisol. Either there’s a brain-eating parasite in that head of hers, making her act all crazy, or she’s not Serafina.
“What’s going on, Serafina? This isn’t you.” I test to see if maybe she’ll just come out with the truth.
Her eyelashes flutter, and my suspicions grow.
For what fucking reason would I have Annetta here, dressed up as her twin sister and biting me?
She sucks in a breath and stands tall.
“They’re going to kill her,” she says, voice steady. “You need to go back. Save her. Don’t let her die.”
Warm blood slithers down my neck into my shirt collar, but I make no move to clean it.
I fall forward toward her, catching myself with my palm on the window next to her head. She flinches at the dull thud but doesn’t back down.
I grin.
This close, I can smell blood on every ragged breath spilling from her mouth. She must be terrified, but she’s facing me with everything she’s got, even though I’m nearlytwice her size. Most men would have already pissed their pants by now. Maybe she’s foolishly certain I won’t hurt her.
“Do you remember what I told you in the stadium?” I ask.
Her eyes flash wide, and her breath catches.
Yeah. I got her.
Weeks ago, Serafina and I had a little chat at Wrigley Field. If I’m wrong, she’ll pass my little test, and I can figure out what’s actually going on with her. But she’s gonna fail, because I’m pretty damn sure this isn’t Serafina.
She wipes the blood off her mouth with the back of her hand and traces her fingers down my forearm before they fall to her side. If she thinks flirting with me is gonna make me back down, she’ll find out that it will take a lot more than a pretty face to sway me.
“Please don’t let her die, Dom,” she whispers.
My chest gives a light squeeze. How can she be so worried about Marisol when she’s got blood on her tongue and a man like me breathing down her neck? Annetta has always been like this—too much of a martyr for her own damn good.
“Listen to me,” I say, our faces inches apart. Gunshots ring off from inside the house, and she flinches. I don’t. “Do you trust me?”
More gunshots. Her gaze flickers back and forth between me and the house.
She hasn’t answered my question, but I continue, “You don’t need to worry about Marisol. Salvatore would sooner saw off his right hand than let harm come to that woman. If he’s sending her to the basement, it’s because she’ll be the safest there.”
I glance down at her blood-kissed mouth once, thendrop my hand away from the window. “Get in the car. I’m taking you home.”
I swing the passenger door open and shove her inside.
