by Lana Sky
I wouldn’t put it past him in some misguided attempt at “peace.”
“What do you want?” I flatten my hand against the desk, noting its width in comparison to that pretty, pale neck. I could curl a fist around that throat and have my fingers meet. One hard twist would snap it.
I should do far worse than that.
“What did he say to you?” Fresh irritation roughens my voice. I should have confronted her the second I saw her in his room.
Hell, maybe that was my karmic punishment—watching her stand over Vin’s lifeless body after I tried my damn hardest to destroy her. God is a cruel son of a bitch.
So is she. Her eyes reflect nothing but my own staring back. She has no trouble reading me, but it’s rare when I can’t read her.
I slam my hand against the desk hard, and she jumps, not so stoic after all. “Tell me.”
She doesn’t have to. Her cheeks flush pink with rage, and it’s confirmation enough. Despite his weakened state, Vin told her the truth—he thought Safiya was dead.
Fuck. I sit back, caught off guard by the guilt rising in my gut.
Do I regret the lie? No. If Vin knew what I actually did, that I left her…
He would never forgive me for that.
Never.
She’s smart enough to have already guessed that. It’s why she’s here, even if she can’t state as much out loud—blackmail.
Well, she can get in line. As I lift my hand, a streak of blood draws my notice—the Salvatore girl’s. She’s another future hellcat with an ax to grind, not to mention the Saleris, and Mischa, and whoever set this all into motion…
In the grand scheme, Willow Stepanova is one in a long line of many.
“You think you have leverage over me now?” I say, cutting to the chase. A chuckle slips from me before I can help it, but the little witch isn’t playing along.
Her eyes widen as if she’s confused by the statement. Bullshit. I’m not falling for the innocent act.
“Fine,” I admit. “You got your wish. I’ll play. Keep your mouth shut. Or…”
Once again, those eyes convey her response without her having to utter a word. Or what?
“If he knew… It would kill him,” I say coldly. Though, I can’t keep the truth from him forever. “Give me time to tell him myself.”
She purses her lips. Why?
“You seem to be in the habit of making ultimatums,” I point out. “Keep your mouth shut, and you set the terms.”
I expect her to pretend she’s above blackmail, but she seems to enjoy proving me wrong.
Rather than leave, she approaches the desk. Shock roots me to the spot, and she’s close enough to touch before I know it, that frothy yellow dress swishing around her. The thin fabric conforms to those softly curving breasts and slender hips, falling just above her knees. By her side, a pale hand flinches, and I suspect what she’s after even before she flattens her palm against the wood’s surface.
Let me speak.
I tug open a drawer—the same one I shoved the letters into—and withdraw a fresh sheet of paper and a pen, sliding both toward her. She takes them in her delicate hands, manipulating each one the way I assume she would piano keys.
Mischa turned her into a musician, but at her core, she’s an assassin—whether it’s a knife, or a pen, she wields both weapons against me without hesitation. The cut she left on my cheek still stings, but I must be addicted to her brand of pain. Here I am, letting her take yet another shot. I shouldn’t indulge her. Her words shouldn’t matter.
I’m staring anyway, feeling the front of my pants tighten. Watching her write is way more enthralling than it should be. As sick as it sounds, there’s something sensual in how she grips that pen. Her thumb strokes the barrel as she takes her time forming each word.
The end result is blunt as hell—You lied to him. You are a coward.
I grit my teeth. Surprisingly, I don’t feel the anger I’d expect. She’s right. I lied to Vincenzo, and I’d do so again.
“I am a coward,” I admit, leveling her with a searching look. “But no different from your Mischa.”
Her eyes cut to slits. Don’t you turn this on him.
But it’s the only weapon I have—deflection.
“He knew my identity,” I add, sitting forward.
She bites her lip and goddamn. The sight of that pink flesh between her teeth is hell. Aware of my attention, her eyes narrow, her cheeks reddening—but she can’t deny she’s pissed. Good.
“Mischa,” I continue, fighting to stay focused on the topic at hand. “He let me live all this time in proximity to you without breathing a word. He denied you your revenge. Does that count as a lie?”
Her nostrils flare as she retracts her teeth, leaving her lip blood-red. It’s the closest I figure she’ll come to an outright snarl, and it’s a look that requires no interpretation—You are a monster.
“I thought we already established that I am a monster,” I point out.
She doesn’t look satisfied by the admission. Her eyes trace mine in that searching way I noticed last night, and it takes everything in me to hold still.
I last only a heartbeat before turning away. My gaze is on the drawer again, and I have to wonder. What the hell did she read in those damn letters? Something to dampen her anger with more goddamn curiosity.
I consider ripping one open to find out. But why should I? If intimidation doesn’t sway her, I know what will.
“How many of those letters did you read?”
Her pink lips quirk downward.
“Not all of them,” I say, my suspicion confirmed. “You want to poke inside my brain, little wife? Nose into the past? Be my guest. I’ll let you.”
The witch might as well be made of glass. Nothing can disguise the flicker of interest crossing her face.
“Keep your mouth shut, and I’ll give you what you want. I’ll give you the letters. Read to your fucking heart’s content, I don’t care.”
Slowly, though, I don’t mention that part. I’ll give her pieces one at a time to stave off the inevitable.
But she’s not so easy to manipulate. Skepticism is written all across that pouty little mouth.
“Here.” I wrench open the drawer and eye the letters. She already had them sorted between the bed and the box. I’m assuming the ones she hadn’t read were still inside it. Maybe ten, if that. I grab the topmost one and present it to her on the flat of my palm. “I’m a man of my word.”
Too late, do I realize the irony of that. She doesn’t take the letter, lifting the pen instead. Her words come faster.
Why did you lie to him?
I frown, caught off guard by yet another direct question.
“Why?” I lean back in my chair, eyeing the ceiling. “You know the answer to that, little wife.”
The only one that makes sense, anyway. Nonetheless, I give her what she wants and utter the line with all the bravado it deserves. “I couldn’t face the shame.”
I look over, expecting to find her smug. Instead, she grabs that pen again.
You’re lying.
A surprised grunt rips from my throat. “Why would I lie?”
That pen remains in her grasp, her gaze turned inward as if she’s mulling it over.
Damn her.
Curiosity is unnerving on that pretty face. Alarming. If I had to guess what those letters contain, personal shit I could only say to Liv. Thoughts of her. Descriptions of her. Of us.
Maybe the little witch has a voyeur streak?
“Do you want it or not?” I raise the letter, fingering the end as though I mean to rip it in half—and I should.
I don’t realize she moves until the page starts to slip from my grasp. She wants it. So badly she forgets to disguise the desperate, hungry gleam in her eye.
Right when she almost has it freed, I snatch the letter back.
“I’ve changed my mind. Let’s talk first, before we discuss business. Get a few things squared away. Unless you want to leave
?”
I expect her to run. She surprises me again by perching herself on the edge of the nearest chair. The tight line of her jaw warns she’s well aware of what I’ll ask before I even voice it.
That doesn’t mean I don’t take pleasure in doing so. “Fine. Let’s talk about last night, and why you came into my room—” Damn. The genuine curiosity leeching into my tone shouldn’t be there. “What was your intent? To seduce me in the hopes of derailing our little engagement? Did you really think it would be so easy?”
9
Willow
Did you think it would be so easy?
Smug cruelty lurks within his tone, bordering on obscene. Why did I “come” into his room last night? The obvious response is innocent on its face. I heard him having a nightmare and went to investigate.
The real answer lurks deep within that nest of emotions he alone arouses in me. Hateful fascination is one way to describe it. A need to prod. To poke. To hate everything there is to hate about Donatello Vanici and push him to his breaking point.
Lies… The voice is faint, easy to ignore at first—but ruthlessly persistent. You love proving him wrong. You crave his attention. It’s why you’re here. It’s why you’ve stayed...
My initial impulse is to deny. I don’t want a damn thing from him, though if I did…
I’ve gotten my wish. His eyes are riveted to me, piercing through flesh and bone. I have his undivided attention.
“Did you think I would ignore it?” His tone is genuinely puzzled, once again steering the conversation toward a topic I’ve spent all day suppressing. “Pretend it never happened. Live in shame? No, little principessa. My cock may react to you, but that’s as far as any attraction goes.”
His words hit their bullseye. I’m blushing; I can’t help it. Even Mischa’s guards never spoke vulgarly within earshot of the family.
Not that anyone would dare talk to me the way he does. It’s his only method of turning the tables—insulting me. Scaring me.
But he’s not the only one capable of analyzing that moment. My eyes drift shut, and I’m in his room again, on that bed…
A disorienting sensation makes me sway, like that anxious few seconds before a live performance. Still, I push through, hunting each recollection for something to use against him. Perhaps his size. My breath escapes in a rush as I recall the way his weight pinned me down. Never in my life had I felt as small as I did beneath him. So exposed. In fact, I remember feeling a distinct hardness graze my hip…
His cock reacted to me, all right.
When I open my eyes again, the pen is still in my grasp. I level it against the page before I even process what I’m writing.
Voice rasping, he recites the words as I go, switching the pronouns. “What makes me think that you could want me?”
I can almost hear the statement strike true. Bullseye. I hit my target, but at what cost?
That particular wording proposes a dangerous hypothetical. Why would the daughter of a man who could offer her the world want someone like him? A washed-up crime lord with little to his name, forced to play mind games to stay afloat. A creature with no warmth. No soul.
The logical cons add up, but I make the mistake of meeting his searching stare, and all thoughts derail.
“I think you should elaborate, little wife,” he prods, his voice dangerously low.
I ignore the bait, responding only to the direct challenge. Elaborate? I’ll put it bluntly.
I am a Stepanov. What could you possibly offer me?
I’ve always refused to embody such a haughty mindset—the arrogance of an heiress with her nose in the air. In this moment, pride is my armor, and I wear it proudly.
My opponent, however, isn’t so easily deterred. He stands, circling to my side of the desk.
As his steps draw nearer, warmth teases my cheek, and I face the wall rather than give him the satisfaction of looking his way. I don’t have to—I’ve memorized his touch by feel. His thumb is the source of the slight pressure, grazing the space beneath my lip.
Then lower, down my throat.
Lower still.
Only when he nears the flowy neckline of my dress does he pause, stroking the fabric in a way that dares me to react—but I’m frozen. Every nerve in my skin paralyzes with awareness of him.
He feels so different from how he should. Not repulsive. Just ragged. Rugged. Years of pain and toil have shaped the grating texture of his callouses and the harshness of each gnarled scar…
Hands brutal enough to ruthlessly kill a man. Soft enough to bandage an injured child.
I’m so distracted by the conflicting sensations that I nearly miss the second he lets his hand drift downward, over my breast. Not because he truly desires to touch me.
This is just to prove he can. When he wants to. How he wants to.
Time slows to a crawl as his fingers deliberately trace that mound of flesh, grazing over my nipple with each pass. With light pressure at first. Then harder, sowing a burst of electrifying heat.
My reaction is automatic—I bat his hand away, and he chuckles in triumph.
“Don’t be shy now, principessa...” His mouth finds my ear. “What could I offer you? Nothing. Nothing that would appeal to a sheltered little girl.” Irritation roughens his voice, and I know my words hit their mark. I’ve won this round.
Not that I have long to savor my victory. I don’t see defeat in his expression as he moves to stand before me. Instead, his upper lip quirks in a disarming smirk.
“The real question you should be asking is, if I’m so beneath you, why do you keep coming back for more?” He cradles my chin against his palm, letting his fingers rest against my fluttering pulse point. “I guess even an heiress can be a glutton for punishment.”
I don’t think. I just write. From the corner of my eye, I see the end of the pen dance across the page, guided by my hand, and I draw strength from my ability to finally counter him on a level playing field. I won’t be silenced again.
Though, he craves nothing more than to ignore me. His brows furrow as he mulls whether or not to break eye contact first—then he does, reading aloud. “Then why strip you naked?”
It’s a damn good question, and I’m surprised by just how much I crave an answer. Why does he enjoy lording his sex over me, if corruption isn’t his end goal? If I don’t appeal to him, why look at me like I do? Why groan in torment that I was beautiful before he knew who I really was?
As if the same thought is on his mind, his eyelashes flicker, obscuring his intentions.
“Why?” Without warning, he reaches out, fingering a lock of my hair. “Because it unnerves you. You hate being out of control.”
His grated tone unlocks a memory I’ve tried to suppress.
Touching myself, knowing he was watching. Letting him stare. Knowing that he couldn’t stop me even if he wanted to…
“Use that brain of yours, principessa,” he scolds, and the memory fades. “Your body isn’t what I’m after.”
Liar. The other night wasn’t the first time we neared some unspoken boundary, that moment in the shower, for instance. How his eyes raked me over while he bit his lip—the same way I’m doing now, biting hard enough to sting.
“You do this when you’re angry,” he declares, stroking my chin.
I wrench away from him, but it’s a second before I realize what he means.
“Bite your lip like that—” his eyes fixate on my mouth. “You do it when you’re angry, even when you’re aroused. You don’t believe me?”
I’m doing it now. Defiant, I pry my jaw apart, exposing my wet lips to him, teeth bared—but this is exactly what he wants. My rage. My anger. My hate. He feeds off every emotion, seeming to grow larger and more dominating until I’m drowning in his shadow. He wants me seething and helpless.
It’s the only way he knows how to operate.
I may bite my lip, but he has his own tells. The way his eyes flash, for one, when I kissed him. Or when I met his gaze without fli
nching the other night. When I prove I’m not afraid of him.
I stand, and, almost instantaneously, he steps back.
“I suggest you run off to bed. Get some sleep,” he taunts. “Though, maybe you should practice what little skill you showed off with those fingers. You’ll be a lonely wife on our wedding night—”
He falls silent mid-word as I reach for the pen. A muscle in his jaw flexes, the same way it did the other day in the elevator when I dared to challenge him. If I had to decipher its meaning, I’d guess alarm mixed with a hint of amusement.
Writing to him is an unnecessary gimmick, but it turns the tables. With a few strokes of ink, he’s beside me, craning his neck over my shoulder to devour every word.
“I’ve seen you naked,” he recites, providing his growled version of narration. It’s unsettling how aggressive he makes me sound. Bold. “I’ve violated you, seen you, touched you… What do I define as sex?” His tone deepens with a rare hint of unease. I wish I could savor it, but my heart is racing. Especially when he utters gruffly, “You want to codify your virginity?”
I drop the pen, letting the thud as it meets the desk speak for me. Why not?
I face him, allowing him to see the dare I know lurks in my expression. What does Donatello Vanici deem corruption? Something more than kissing. Touching. More than looming over someone as they experience a twisted sense of intimacy.
I want him to flinch. Cringe. Admit his shame.
He laughs in my face.
“Oh, principessa. If I wanted you…” He strokes my cheek again, this time letting his nail graze the tender skin. “You’d know it. I’d have my cock inside of you, for one. You’d feel my seed against your womb, and you wouldn’t need to ask what corruption feels like. Don’t be fooled by our little games. Your worth to me has only ever extended to who your father is, and the role you play. Willow Stepanova.”
A lie. I know it is. Confident of that, I withstand his mocking laughter without flinching. I don’t turn away.
