11. Chapter 11
Chapter 11
Sylvie
A shiver wracked my body when his thumb ran across my peak. “Excuse me?” My voice sounded hoarse. Was he serious?
He gave me a devilish grin as he let go of my hand, dragging his fingers across my wrist and palm, hot lust in his eyes. “I’m happy to review the terms of our bet with you.”
I scooped up my jumper and slipped it back on without taking time to put on my bra. The idea of spending a week with Drakos in his loft sent a thrill of excitement and dread through me, and the thought of being under his control played havoc with my brain.
“I don’t need you to remind me of the terms, and I need to go back and finish Sunday poker.”
He tilted his head, studying me. “Are you thinking of reneging?”
My spine snapped straight. “No, I’m not reneging. But we never discussed the exact timing.”
“We shook on it, and I say the bet starts tonight.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but he held up his hand. “I’m not unreasonable. You can pack for the week, then finish hosting, and we’ll go after that. We could be doing other things right now based on the terms of our agreement, so let’s not argue.” His lips tipped up in an annoying grin as he folded his arms across his bare chest. I struggled to keep my eyes on his face. He had no such qualms as his gaze traced down to my hard nipples, clearly visible through the white fabric.
I folded my arms across my breasts. “That's ironic, coming from a guy who argues for a living.”
The corner of his mouth quirked up. “Maybe, but you should know better than to argue terms after the fact.”
The bastard had a point, and the weight of inevitability settled in my stomach. There was no getting out of this bet—my pride wouldn't allow it.
“Fine. The sooner we start, the sooner it’s done.”
“I agree,” he drawled as annoyance and something darker slid through his eyes. “A word of advice, though. Don’t antagonize the devil when he has you in his clutches.”
As I gathered my discarded clothing, I glared at him. “I’m not trying to change the terms of our bet. But I need you to know that if you try to humiliate or hurt me—or turn this week into a shitshow—we’re over. As lovers, frenemies, acquaintances, or whatever this is between us.” I hated the vulnerability that had crept into my voice.
He slid into his shirt, buttoned it, and slipped his watch and belt on as he listened. When we finished dressing, he stepped over to straighten my collar and trailed his hands down my shoulders. “You can trust me. Let’s grab what you’ll need for the week.”
He sounded so logical and reasonable as we stood there discussing the terms of us spending the week living together and fucking. I turned and strode to my bedroom, putting some space between us. When he followed me down the hall, I realized I should have told Drakos to wait in the living room, but it was too late now. He looked around curiously.
My bedroom was my sanctuary, and I wondered what he thought of it. I’d painted the room a soothing sage green, then added plants and succulents here and there. A few black and white photographs of old Las Vegas, a black crow statue, and a spattering of other trinkets gave the space a whimsical feel. The antique embalmer he’d given me sat on my nightstand, and my bed was made up of fluffy white linens and a gauzy canopy.
“I like your bedroom, it feels like you.”
His compliment warmed me, but I mentally fought against his charm. I pulled a large bag out from under my bed, then headed to my closet, grabbing a few T-shirts and leggings, a couple of hoodies, and shoes.
He followed me and looked over my shoulder. “Bring some dressy clothing. I want to take you out on the Strip, and maybe to a show.”
“I’m not going—” He carefully turned me around and held up a finger, waiting until I clamped my mouth shut.
“As per our agreement, I could tell you to strip, lean over your bed, and spread your gorgeous legs so I can give you a thorough fucking right here and now. You are mine for the next seven days. You’ll live in my loft and be attached to my hip when we’re not working. And we’ll be sleeping and fucking in my bed, the shower, my vehicle, over my desk—wherever we want. So unless you plan to welch on our bet, you’ll stop arguing .”
My eyes went squinty, and I turned back to my closet, grabbing a black dress, a red jumper, and more shoes. Drakos didn’t gloat as I finished packing, but the bastard probably wanted to. After throwing in bras, panties, and toiletries into another backpack, I straightened. “I’m ready. You can take off since I need my car to drive back here for work tomorrow. I’ll meet you at your loft when I get done.”
He shook his head. “No. I’ll drive tonight and drop you off tomorrow morning on my way to work.”
Annoyance and anger clogged my throat, but I counted to ten and breathed in and out through my nose a few times—probably looking like an angry bull—but I didn’t care. When I thought I could speak without yelling, I glared at him.
“I understand part of the bet was that I would do what you say and not argue. But I am genuinely asking why I can’t have my own car.” He picked up my backpack, grabbed my bag, and herded me toward the door.
“I want to suck the marrow out of every single second with you this week, and part of that includes driving to and from work together. Tomorrow you can get your car.”
Not trusting myself to speak without arguing, I simply nodded and walked out of the apartment into the crisp evening air, my mind a tangled mess. I could feel Drakos's presence behind me, a magnetic force pulling at my own. The thought of spending an entire week with him both thrilled and frightened me, and I caught myself covertly glancing at him. It was maddening how attractive I found his possessive nature and cynical confidence.
He tossed my bags into the trunk of his black Range Rover, then I stalked back into the funeral home to help clean up. Roman and Luna were gone by then, and a half hour later I walked back out. He silently opened the passenger door for me. But I hesitated before getting in, caught in a moment of internal conflict. Part of me wanted to flee back to the safety of the mortuary and my apartment, or maybe even lock myself in the morgue refrigerator and call it a night. Yet… another reckless, curious part urged me to see what the week would bring.
“Having regrets?” Drakos asked, his voice low and smooth as he held the passenger door.
“About so many things,” I admitted quietly, my gaze flickering to his. “But mostly about losing my sanity and making that bet.”
He chuckled. “Sanity's overrated. The mad hatters and nonconformists of the world are the ones who make life interesting.”
His off-the-cuff comment somehow soothed me. I was one of those mad-hatter nonconformists. I let out a long breath, ducked my head, and slid into the passenger seat. As he walked around and got in, a thought flitted through my mind.
“Who’s your grandfather?”
Drakos’s white teeth flashed in the twilight. “That’s a question you should have asked before you agreed to the bet.”
“Who is he?” I asked again.
“Alexander Berkovich.”
I turned and stared at his profile, my mouth hanging open. “Your grandfather received his Grandmaster title in… well, sometime in the 1980s. He was also one of the pioneers of blitz chess. Your maternal grandfather, I take it.”
He nodded and glanced at me. “Besides him, you’re one of the best players I’ve gone up against. But I probably have an unfair advantage.”
“You think?” I snapped. “Yeah, learning to play chess from a Grandmaster might be considered an unfair advantage.” Annoyance—mostly at myself—bubbled inside, but I unclenched my hands and tried to calm down so I wouldn’t throat-punch him. I was also reluctantly impressed.
“What other fun surprises do you have in store this week?” I couldn't shake the feeling that the next seven days were going to be life-altering.
He smiled but didn’t answer. Twenty minutes later, we pulled into the garage under his loft. When he turned off the engine, the silence was almost deafening.
“Welcome to your home for the next seven days.” Drakos took my bags, and I followed him up the stairs. His loft was as clean and modern as I remembered. He led me into the cavernous living space. The exposed brick, wood beams, and metal ductwork made the space feel like something straight out of an industrial chic magazine spread.
He walked to one of the tall sliding doors on the far wall, and I followed him into his bedroom. His massive bed stood in front of a gray brick wall and was made up with soft gray bed linens. He watched me study his room with those unnerving blue eyes. I needed to set some boundaries.
Turning to face him, I crossed my arms. “Let's get a few things straight,” I began, setting my purse down on the bench at the end of his bed.
“By all means, let's,” he replied, his lips curling as he leaned against the closet doorframe.
“This bet doesn't change anything. I'm here because I lost fair and square, but I don’t want to be your maid, or sex slave, or whatever twisted version of domestic bliss you might have in mind.”
He grinned and straightened. “I have a weekly cleaning crew who comes in. We’ll straighten up after ourselves and cook together when we eat here. And I’m not interested in a sex slave.” He paused and held up his index finger. “Alright, I can’t say that idea doesn’t intrigue me. But I want an active, willing participant when we fuck.” He stepped in front of me and took my hands in his. “I also want to spend time with you, banter, laugh, and learn more about how your fascinating mind works.”
He fascinated me too, even if I didn’t want to admit it. My shoulders loosened, and I gave him a small grin. “I can live with that. And watching you parade around in those five-thousand-dollar suits won’t be a hardship.”
“They’re more like ten thousand, but who’s counting? I have a few hobbies that require more casual clothing—or no clothing at all.” The corner of his mouth lifted in a devilish grin.
My curiosity got the better of me, and I tilted my head. “What hobbies? Moonlighting as a serial killer? Working at an all-kill animal shelter?”
He shook his head. “We’ll have time to discuss our hobbies later. Tonight, let’s find something to eat and settle in.” He gestured toward the kitchen. “Are you hungry? Let me make you an early dinner since we missed lunch.”
I rolled my neck. Standing here in his bedroom next to his vast bed with his scent surrounding me left me fidgety. “You know how to cook? Because burning down your loft probably isn’t the best way to spend our first night.”
Drakos raised an eyebrow. “I think the bed, not the kitchen, is where we’ll start with that.”
I’d walked right into that one. He laughed at my scowl and stepped close to cup my face. “Let’s get comfortable with each other first and eat a meal together.” He took my hand and led me back into the big common room. “Come on, before my cock overrides my good intentions.”
We settled on chicken and rice. The tension simmered as we worked efficiently together, and he did know how to cook. When the food was ready, we sat at the kitchen bar.
“Has anyone from OutKast come by the mortuary lately?” he asked as he set a glass of white wine in front of me.
“No, but my cousin Callum mentioned the other day they’re offering a reward for any information on Samuel.”
Drakos grimaced. “I hoped they bought the story he ran away to avoid prosecution.”
“I think his father knows he was too lazy and stupid to live on his own.”
We ate in silence for a few minutes lost in thought, then Drakos turned to me. “Why didn’t you go to the police?”
Pushing my half-eaten meal away, I sat back. “There’s no way I’d encourage Camilla to testify against a member of that MC. They’d come after her, and I couldn’t put her in their crosshairs.”
“How’s she doing?”
The whole subject depressed me. “Not well. I saw her last week.” I knew Trina could afford a better apartment, but she told me she was saving up for Camilla’s college. “She seems… broken. When I offered to play video games with her, she didn’t want to. That’s never happened before.” I didn’t know why I was telling Drakos all this.
“How well do you know her?”
I shrugged. “When I first met her, she was maybe four or five, and such a cute, nerdy kid even back then. She grew up with us.”
“No wonder you killed the fucker. He’s lucky he died quickly.” We talked as we cleaned up the kitchen together, and then he refilled our wine glasses and took my hand. Lacing our fingers together, he led me to the couch.
Somehow, I instinctively trusted him. He was smart and well-read, despite the way we met. He also didn’t seem affected by me being a mortician. I wondered if he was still bothered by my last name.
I set my wine glass down on the coffee table. “Her attack doesn’t add up. Why her, and why make sure she knew who did it? It seemed calculated.”
“Do you have any ideas?”
“No, and it’s driving me crazy. Have you heard from OutKast?”
He set his glass next to mine. “They asked around at Motorheads, but that’s it. To some members, I think stealing someone’s motorcycle might be worse than rape, assault, or murder.”
“I want to burn their compound to the ground and salt the earth,” I ground out.
He raised an eyebrow. “Just like Carthage. You know Roman history, play chess, and look like an angel from a Renaissance painting. It’s like my wet dream come to life.”
Curling his hand around the back of my neck, he slowly pulled me in and brushed his mouth against mine. His lips felt soft yet hard, and my breath sped up while desire swirled through my system.
“Drakos—” I began, but he silenced me with a deeper and more insistent kiss.
His hands roamed, leaving me breathless. I trailed my tongue across his lower lip, tasting him. Then I nipped at his mouth.
“Fuck,” he groaned and tangled his fingers in my hair, crushing my mouth against his.
I was tired of fighting against this blistering heat between us, so I tilted my head to get closer to him, and he let go of my hair, grabbed my hips, and pulled me onto his lap. I straddled him and rubbed my center against his hard length.
“Bedroom,” he growled against my neck.
“Yes,” I moaned, powerless to do anything but agree.