Page 57 of Cursed to Be Mine
“You write every night in your journal. Like clockwork. Even established writers don’t have such commitment.”
Her eyes leave mine again. “It’s just silly musings.”
“Nothing about you issilly, Scarlett.”
She hesitates with her thoughts, and I shift where I stand, willing her to see her how I do, not like how her bitch of a mother did.
She sucks in a quick breath as her body stills, and I knowthatquestion has finally weaseled into her brain.
“How do you know all this?” she asks, fear widening her eyes.
I take a step back, trying to give her the distance she needs to feel safe. “I don’t sleep very well.” The souls of my victims scream in my ears during my dreams when my training can’t keep them down. Not all of those I’ve killed haunt me. Most I don’t care about. But there’s been a few good friends who got greedy with power. A few relatives who made one damning mistake. And one feral cat – an accident that got in the way. That one hurts the most.
The tabby was so innocent.
So pure.
It didn’t deserve to die.
Not like everyone else I’ve killed.
“It calms me, watching you write,” I admit freely. “So many emotions flit across your face.”
She blushes hotly, and I know why she does. I’ve read her entries in the darkness of her room, the fantasies she jotted down about me, the memories of our interactions with a twist of the direction she wished they’d gone in.
I wonder what she’ll write about the carwash.
If she’ll mention she couldn’t take her eyes off my cock as she fumbled with the hose. How she jumped when Ibrushed my fingers across hers taking it from her. How she nearly fell on her ass, tripping over her own feet. How she clutched at my shoulders when I grabbed her. How she not so subtly pressed herself against my erection.
A grin spreads as I raise the thumb that was in her mouth back to my lips. I run it across the lower one, my eyes heating on her body, remembering the taste of her pussy on my tongue.
Was that only twenty-four hours ago rather than the eternity it feels like?
I wonder if she’ll write about the words I murmured against her ear. How she wishes she did something other than just stammer and flee back inside. She’s so much more sultry in her journal. So many dirty thoughts.
“If you ever need me,kira, just call. Any hour of the night. For anythingat all.” I flick my tongue against her ear, and she whimpers in the back of her throat before stepping back, a gorgeous blush coloring her cheeks.
She clears her throat as she breathes out slowly. “What doeskiramean?” she asks, and I like that we were both thinking of the same thing.
I shift to lean against the wall, crossing my arms as I study her. “It doesn’t really translate into English.”
“Oh. What is it? Italian?”
“Drazic.”
Her brows pinch. “Is that an ancient language?”
I nod but don’t elaborate, allowing her to believe it’s a lost language of Earth rather than a demonic one that’s been around longer than humans have existed. All witch texts are partly written in it, the first of our kind having learned language from them. “Badly translated, it means ‘master.’”
Her eyes widen. “You call me master?”
“It’s a bad translation.” I pause a moment, finding theright words for her, ones that don’t require me to explain the special bond between an enslaved drazic demon and its master – something that also won’t translate well.
“One’skira...” I say slowly, still thinking it through, “makes up all the things that make life worth living for.”
Her lips part, but she doesn’t interrupt.
“Yourpainfeeds into mine. Yourhappinessfeeds into mine. Your desires, your dreams. So youcontrol, for lack of a better word, my life through the existence of yours. Therefore, you master it. You own it.” I shake my head, a frown pulling at my lips. The word means so much more than that. “It really doesn’t translate well.”
