Torrid (Sordid 2)

“Uncle Goran didn’t like my mother, and he trusted her even less. He planned the thing to drive my parents apart, and it worked like a fucking charm. My dad didn’t know the truth until right before I killed him.”

I swallowed a breath. Goran had orchestrated the death of Vasilije’s mother?

Vasilije shifted over me, moving until he was more comfortable and I was better trapped beneath him. “Goran told my father he’d had the bodyguard killed, but instead my uncle offered him a deal. Tell the lie about fucking around with my mother, and he’d get two hundred grand to start over somewhere else.”

Which the man had obviously taken. Vasilije leaned forward and the tip of his tongue traced the edge of my ear, causing me to shiver. “You found him.”

“He moved back here to be by his family once he heard my father was gone.”

Goosebumps broke out on my legs. Vasilije had probably started planning this bodyguard’s death the moment he went looking for him. “How will you do it?”

“Kill him?” His hot breath rolled down my neck. “My gun. It needs to look like someone broke in.”

“When?” I asked. I should have felt alarm at the ease we were discussing his plot for murder. His tone was casual and distracted, and he sucked on my neck as if he liked the flavor of my skin.

“Tomorrow night.”

I closed my eyes, enjoying the sensation, but I tried to focus my thoughts. I was already in deep with Vasilije. I felt like I knew more about him than anyone else. Could I build the bond between us so strong that when he learned the truth, he’d let me live? Strong enough he’d stay by my side?

Nerves raced in my bloodstream. “Let me come with you.”

His body solidified and the lips on my neck ceased. “You want to, what? Help me?” His tone was so dubious, it bordered on anger.

“No.” I had zero desire to take part, and it wasn’t my place. “What you’re talking about doing is personal.”

“Then, what the fuck are you talking about?”

“I can stay in the car.”

He pulled back and suspicion cast a dark shadow on his face. “Why?”

“So you can tell me every detail when you’re done. I don’t want to wait until you get home later. I want to see you right after.”

His smile was a mouthful of fangs. He acted like what I’d said was easily the best thing he’d ever heard. “You say shit like that and it makes me want to fuck you again.” In a heartbeat, he had his hand under my dress and his fingers stirred between my legs.

I choked on air. I was so sore, just the idea of his fingers sliding inside me made me ache. I glanced away and put my hand on his wrist. He’d said if I told him to stop, he would, but I was nervous he wouldn’t hold to his word.

“No,” I whispered.

His eyes burned with wicked amusement. “Okay.” His cold hand slithered away. “You can tag along. But be prepared. Your evil little mind turns me on. I might not take off my bloodstained clothes to fuck you on the drive home tomorrow. You’d probably get off on that, wouldn’t you?”

I had absolutely no answer.

?

Thanksgiving morning, Vasilije slept in. I’d eaten breakfast and was seated at the piano composing when he came downstairs, shirtless and his hair askew. I jotted a few chords down in the notebook and played them, but wondered if I had the right key for the whole piece. My gaze drifted from the paper to watch the boy in the kitchen.

My muse.

I smirked at the thought. Wouldn’t he just love it if I called him that?

Items were pulled from the fridge and stacked noisily on the counter. Bell peppers. Mushrooms. Green onions. Cheese. A carton of eggs. He went to a cupboard, retrieved a bowl, and then drew a large knife from the butcher’s block, the sharp edge gleaming.

I watched as he chopped the vegetables and tossed them in the bowl. He moved efficiently and with precision. I didn’t expect him to be good with a knife. It was an intimate weapon—one you had to be close to use.

I also didn’t expect Vasilije to know how to cook, but he clearly did.

A skillet was put on the stove, the gas turned on, and he dropped a pat of butter into the pan before cracking eggs into another bowl. He didn’t look up as he whisked them. “Are you going to fucking stare at me while I eat, too?”

“You can cook?” I asked.

He cast an annoyed look at me over the top of the piano. “I can do a lot of things, Oksana. You want an omelet?”

I was glad I was sitting down because shock overwhelmed me. “You’re making me breakfast?”