Page 41 of Unraveling Charlotte

“Pinch,” Lyric warns, and a sharp jolt of pain shoots from my finger up my arm, making me hiss.

Shivering, I clench my eyes shut tightly. “I don’t fucking know,” I curse. “So many times, I’ve thought about how I would react or feel if something like that happened. There’s no way to prepare yourself. I thought he was just a robber, but he didn’t hesitate when I told him to take the safe. His hand was steady, and he shot him. I didn’t feel anything about that until later.”

“Charlotte,” Desmond warns, his tone urging me to be honest.

I’m evading his question, and a surge of anger bubbles up within me. I want to lash out at him for making me reveal something I hadn’t even told the police. Perhaps that’s the crux of it—I kept this from everyone, even Agent Hayes.

“He,” I begin, swallowing hard as I feel the first tug of the stitches. “He had this presence that made me feel like I was in danger and completely safe all at once. I felt…curious.”

“Did he touch you?” Desmond asks suddenly, his voice devoid of emotion. He stands behind Lyric, his arms crossed and face impassive, creating an unsettling tableau.

“Not really,” I mumble, averting my eyes as a blush spreads across my cheeks.

“It’s better to tell him what he wants, songbird,” Lyric warns as he carefully stitches my wound. “Besides, I really want to know the details.”

I grind my teeth and maintain my silence.

Desmond circles around Lyric, leaning down on the table until his face is mere inches from mine. Once again, I notice the absence of any scent from either of them, and it frustrates me. I want to smell their sweat, to experience that natural pheromone that all men emit.

“You’re playing with fire, kitten,” Desmond whispers, his breath brushing against mine. “You think I don’t see the bite mark on your lip?”

Startled, I recoil and glance at Lyric, who watches us with keen interest. My free hand instinctively goes to my lip, where the mysterious hitman had bitten me only hours ago. My fingertips trace the scab, reopening it. Blood beads on my lip once more, and I can’t resist licking it, savoring the metallic taste.

“This isn’t from that night,” I respond, looking back at Desmond, my brows furrowing. “Why does it matter, Desmond Black?”

“Yeah, Desi, why does it matter?” Lyric teases, his tone playful. I briefly wonder if Desmond will retaliate physically for the nickname, but he doesn’t. Instead, he leans back, tilting his head to the side as he studies me. There’s a curiosity in his gaze that resonates with the curiosity churning in my stomach.

“Cheese,” he suddenly declares, throwing me off guard. Confused, I raise an eyebrow. “Do you want cheese in your omelet?”

“Does that mean this conversation is over?” I retort.

“Oh, kitten, not even close,” Desmond replies, a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “Not until you tell me exactly how you felt.”

He knows.It’s obvious in the way he looks at me. He just wants me to admit to feeling more curious than horrified.

“Why should I tell you something you already know the answer to?” I grind out, my frustration bubbling.

Lyric chuckles as he ties off the last stitch. “Oh, songbird. That’s because we like to hear you say the words.” He bites his lip and then licks at the dented skin. “It turns us on.”

A sense of unease settles in as I look between them. It feels like they are playing some sort of game with me, and it sends shivers up my spine that dampen my previous desire.

“Don’t you like games, Charlotte?” Desmond asks, his intense gaze stripping me bare.

“Play with us, Charlotte,” Lyric urges, gently lifting my hand, the cut now perfectly stitched. He holds my gaze and brings my finger to his mouth, where he licks the blood on the side of the wound.

I snatch my hand back to my chest, feeling a rush of discomfort and anxiety. Lyric’s laughter washes over me, and it carries a villainous, malicious undertone that makes me twitch in my chair.

“Sal was a good man. He gave me a job. He bought me this table and even set me up with a home. I don’t know what game the two of you are playing, but I don’t want any part of it,” I whisper, feeling as though they already dragged me into something I could never say no to.

“Oh, kitten, you do not know what kind ofmanSal was.” There’s venom in his tone, punishment for me for thinking otherwise. He turns around, choosing to focus on the omelets, and somehow, it makes me feel dismissed, and I hate that.

Lyric’s hands land on my thighs, where he squeezes them. It’s an intimate touch, yet I like his touch because I’m a touch-starved, needy woman. I haven’t had a man touch me since college, and even though they put me on edge, something about them turns that edge into a blade.

One side dull, and one full of danger.

“I want to know about your lip.” Lyric’s hands flex, and I can’t help but wonder if he wants to spread my legs.

A sliver of me yearns for him to do it.

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