Page 103 of Beautiful Sinners

“We’d been biding our time, waiting for graduation when we’d officially be inducted into the Council. We knew our fathers had no plans of relinquishing control, so we were going to take it from them.”

I glide my fingers through his hair, letting the soft strands weave between my fingers. “Kill them?”

“Yes.”

To any other person, the notion of patricide would be horrific. But I know what kind of men Francesco, Patrick, and Gabriel are. I witnessed what they were capable of and the horrors they inflicted on the boys I loved. The lash marks that cover Tristan’s back and the more recent burn on his hand. Hendrix can’t find peace, even in sleep, because of the nightmares that haunt him. Constantine’s shattered voice that acts as a daily reminder that his father almost killed him.

“Dragon.”

Startled out of my morose thoughts, I follow where he’s pointing and peer up at the puffy white clouds in the sky that weren’t there earlier today.

“Where?”

When Council meetings would go long, and we got bored, the guys and I would sneak to the roof and play this game, except it would be with the stars hanging in the night sky, not clouds.

Failing to see a dragon anywhere, I bend over as far as I can with his head in my lap. The breeze fans its florally perfumed breath over my face, but it’s his subtle cologne and the scent of his citrusy shampoo that invades my lungs.

“That one, right there. It’s a dragon,” he says.

“It’s a pickle with feet.”

He barks out a laugh that does crazy things to my insides. “It’s not a pickle, woman. Look. There’s the head and wings and fire coming out of its mouth.” He traces the shape of the cloud with his fingertip.

“Still a pickle.”

“It’s not a damn pickle.”

I yelp when he reaches back and digs his fingers into my ribs, knowing exactly where I’m most ticklish.

“Con! Stop!” I giggle-snort and hearing it makes me laugh even harder.

Constantine abruptly rolls over and pushes me back onto the blanket. My breath catches as sparks of desire shoot straight between my thighs. Unable to stop them, my hands explore every bulge and dip of his impossibly toned arms. The weight of him is heavy and enticing as he pins me beneath him, his chest rising and falling against mine with labored breaths.

“I missed hearing you laugh,” he quietly says, his face filled with a myriad of emotions. “I love you so fucking much.”

Those butterflies I had felt inside my chest when he sent me the texts in class explode into bombs of confetti.

“I love you more.”

Is that my voice, all wispy and needy?

Just like with the clouds, he draws shapes over my skin. A heart over my jugular notch. The rounded loops of flower petals across my cheek. I can feel the power of his gaze on me when his finger moves to my mouth and he begins spelling out individual letters over my parted lips. M-I-N-E.

“I am, and I always will be,” I reply when he finishes. “Constantine?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“Do you think they’re responsible for my parents’ murder?”

Wrinkles appear on his forehead when he frowns. “Who?”

“Francesco, Patrick, and Gabriel.”

It’s a question that I can’t seem to stop pondering. If anyone had the resources to orchestrate the attack on the cabin in Ireland, it would be them.

I stare up at him expectantly, wanting to know what he thinks about my new theory. What I get is an unexpected declaration.

“I swear on my life I will never let anyone hurt you again.”

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