Torrid (Sordid 2)

Following his order wasn’t too bad when I focused on the tasks and not his gaze lingering on my body. A weird part of me kind of liked it. I closed the cartons and put the leftovers in the fridge. I carried his plate to the sink and rinsed it, then racked it and my own in the dishwasher. He said nothing, but I felt his presence on every fucking inch of my skin, and when I spied his lust-filled expression, I nearly burst into flames.

His desire for me was sexual, but I was beginning to wonder if I’d scratched the surface of more with him. He said we were alike, and he fucking loved himself, so it stood to reason he might someday feel something for me besides mere tolerance. Never love—because, like me, he didn’t have the weakness of a heart—but maybe we’d come to have mutual respect. Even loyalty.

I was losing my mind. Loyalty with a Serb? With a Markovic? They weren’t capable. If they had any loyalty, their family wouldn’t be this broken.

When I’d finished my ‘chore,’ Vasilije turned off the kitchen light and padded into the living room. I followed, stood beside the couch, and waited for his next command. He collected my clothes in his arms, dumped them in a pile at the foot of the stairs, and motioned up. At the top of the landing, his cold fingers curled around my wrist and tugged me toward the door to his bedroom.

He didn’t turn on the light, and I stared at the bed, lit only by moonlight from the window.

Had it only been last night since I’d stood in this room? It felt like both a lifetime ago and like no time had passed at all. I was gripped by the same nerves, and they worsened as he skimmed his fingertips over my collarbone. They skated between my breasts, drew an S on my belly, and journeyed onto my back as he rounded me.

Was he trying to get me used to his touch? Impossible. His touch wasn’t bad, it was just . . . different. Unlike anything else. I was sure he could touch me a million times and it’d always feel this way. Dangerous and a little exciting. His palm closed on my shoulder and urged me down. Without a word, his command was clear. I sat naked on the carpet in the center of the room as he tugged off his t-shirt and tossed it aside.

His body was like his personality. Hard and cold, yet appealing. He undid his jeans and stepped out of them, casting the heavy fabric away with a thud. I sat perfectly still, my legs gathered to one side of my body as he went to a dresser and fished out a metal lunchbox.

I’d thought I’d smelled pot last night, but I’d been a bit of a wreck when I’d come out of the bathroom wearing nothing but his robe. He cracked a window, pulled out a rolled joint, and flicked on a lighter, making the end of the joint glow briefly as he sucked down air. The lighter was thrown down on the dresser in a noisy tumble.

Vasilije grabbed a bowl and sat on the edge of the bed, smoking the entire joint without saying anything, but his gaze never wavered from me. What was he thinking about? His eyes went narrow at one point and he had to be evaluating me critically. It should have made me feel small, but I wasn’t going to let it.

I sprawled out on the floor, propping my elbow on the carpet and resting my head in my hand, giving him the most confident look I could muster, even though I was more vulnerable than I’d ever been. It was pointless. It seemed like Vasilije Markovic could see right through me, and I probably looked like an idiot lounging on the floor.

Yet all he did was smoke his goddamn joint and stare with his black eyes.

It was freezing with the window open, and I tried not to shiver. He wasn’t. Shouldn’t he be cold? It was supposed to be fiery in hell, after all. The only thing warm in this room was the joint and the white line of smoke he blew from his lungs. Eventually he stubbed out the tiny remainder in the bowl, put it on the dresser, and slammed the window shut with a loud bang.

“I barely remember my mom,” he said abruptly.

My breath caught in my throat.

“I can’t even tell if my memories of her are real, or just pictures I’ve seen so many times I’ve turned them into memories.” He leaned against the dresser and focused on me, crossing his powerful and threatening arms over his chest. “But she loved me and my brother. I know that. And she loved my dad for some stupid fucking reason.”