Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
EDIE
My sex clenches, and I allow my lips to part just a little.
He slides his finger in. “Suck.”
Halfheartedly, I suck. I get a hit of pepper and nutmeg.
It’s good. So good.
It’s like a microcosm of our relationship. Something delicious that I’m trying not to like. And what’s up with the cookies?
Our gazes lock.
He pushes in his finger further, invading my mouth, holding my gaze. The feeling shoots clear down to my sex.
It’s so hot it feels like it shouldn’t be allowed in public. But we’re in the dark corner of a restaurant with nobody watching—not even his guys.
The pad of his finger settles onto my tongue.
With his other hand, he gives my thigh a squeeze and then slides his palm up toward my core.
Rough fingers push up under my panties and explore the softest, most secret part of me while his other finger owns my mouth.
It’s a shockingly erotic invasion.
I fight to control my breathing as my sex blooms with heat. It’s as if my mouth and vagina are connected in some forbidden way that only Luka knows, being the monster he is.
And I want more and more. And more. It’s all I can do not to suck his finger like a little demon and arch greedily into his hand.
God, who does he think he is to do this to me? Make me want these things?
I’m on the verge of losing the battle to keep my mask of blandness in place, to stay unaffected, un-outraged, un-turned on, but thankfully, Luka pulls out the finger, leaving me secretly aroused. Breathless.
He looks at me strangely, like he might have been lost for a moment.
But that’s impossible. This is not a man who gets lost.
He picks up my fork and puts it in my hand. “You’ll eat.”
“If that’s what you want.” And I want to—I really, really do.
“You’ll eat.” He turns back to his own plate, to the conversation.
And I eat. It’s all I can do not to inhale everything in sight.
The peppers are perfectly done, stuffed with rice, onions, tomatoes, herbs, and some sort of meat. The phyllo pastry dish is madness. I put some cubes of cheese and some olives on a piece of bread and eat that. He’s right—it’s warm and delicious.
So delicious.
Is this how my sister felt? Sucked down a rabbit hole of erotic and culinary temptations?
I take seconds of my favorites. Thirds of the pastry thing.
“Good?” Luka’s voice knocks me out of my orgy of consumption.
He’s watching me with that predatory amusement that makes my skin heat.
“It’s okay.”
He leans in. “I love the way you think you’re so above this. So indifferent.”
I squint at him like he’s not quite making sense.
“You just go with that. It’ll just be all the more enjoyable to crack you open and make you beg.”
“Whatever you like. Happy to oblige.”
He just looks amused. “No, you’re not.”
The talk at the table rolls on. They’re back to Lazarus and trading Lazarus stories.
What I’m gathering is that his signature, his calling card, is to add something weird and fucked up to the murder scene.
One time, he apparently killed somebody in their bathtub and then made a hospitality fold on the spatter-soaked roll of toilet paper like they do in high-end hotels—that little triangle fold at the end of the roll. Which is nothing short of bizarre.
Another time, he ripped out a man’s intestines while he was still alive, watched him die, and placed a Daffy Duck Pez dispenser in each hand. They begin to describe the scene in extreme detail.
“Enough!” Luka looks over at me. Is he worried about my sensibilities?
He shouldn’t be. I’m a medieval historian; it takes a lot more than disembowelment—which was a common practice well into the nineteenth century, usually for high treason—to upset me.
Though, adding a bizarre and whimsical detail to such a scene is just unhinged. I need to get away from these people.
“Get a message to Aleksio that our resources are at his disposal,” Luka says. “Aleksio and I knew each other as kids, and the Poconos are in my backyard.”
One man makes a call, speaking in a Slavic language that’s probably Albanian.
“The Dragushas will want blood,” someone else says while he’s on the phone, and everybody is staring at Luka to see what he’ll say. “Lazarus could bring hell.”
Luka pops an olive into his mouth and chews leisurely, as though his only care is if the olive is up to his evil standards, and then he dabs the sides of his mouth.
“Let the Dragushas have their blood. Let Lazarus bring his hell. Let there be chaos. We’ll revel in it and turn it to our advantage. We’ll use it to be stronger. ”
The men beam at Luka. They love his brand of big talk.
“We’ll skewer the fucking world on the ends of our razor-sharp teeth,” he adds.
The men are so into it, I’m surprised they don’t all kiss his ring and roll around on the table in orgasmic pleasure.
I have to admit, it’s... weirdly impressive.
Is this stuff he learned at his military school? How to rally the troops?
Also, on the razor-sharp points of our teeth ? Janey said their clan is called the Ghost Hound Clan. Was that Luka cleverly working in their name? A hound with big teeth? It’s so old school.
This whole experience—the nice suits, the luxurious meal, the casual violence—is like I’m in another world.
A bad world, I remind myself.
I’m not impressed.
Not impressed.
This man killed his own brother in such a brutal way Bender won’t even tell me.
Luka turns to me then, his voice dripping with brutality. “Let any man come after me or mine. I’ll rain hell on him like he’s never seen.”
Something like pleasure crashes over me. I shouldn’t love this kind of talk—I shouldn’t.
It’s just that nobody’s ever rained hell for me. Nobody would even consider it.
Luka just watches me. His devil-angel eyes are dazzling in the candlelight, and bits of silver twinkle in his inky hair like sparks of forbidden energy. He’s older than me and a zillion times more dangerous than any guy I’ve ever met, and he’d quietly rain hell on anybody who came after me.
I should look away.
This is not strength; it’s evil, I tell myself. Look away, I tell myself.
I can’t. I won’t .
His gaze is a palpable thing. Even without him touching me, I can feel it. It’s like he knows things about me. I’m used to being the bookish girl in the corner, unnoticed, unremarkable.
Nobody ever saw me. Until him.
His heavy hand returns to my thigh. Excitement bolts through me. My breath shallows.
“Let any man come into my territory or come after my people,” Luka growls, sliding closer to my quivering core. “Let him touch a hair on the head of anyone here, to even think of taking what’s mine...” He doesn’t bother to finish the sentence.
He doesn’t have to.
He’s talking about me. His hand is electric with energy. I want him to touch me everywhere.
Dimly, I think I should distract myself. Eat some more, maybe, but I can’t think about my belly when my clit’s throbbing and his hand is so close to the needy ache between my legs.
I reach for my drink. I’m concentrating so hard on steadying my trembling hand that I fail to navigate properly and catch a wineglass, tipping it over.
Wine splashes across the table and onto the front of my pale pearl dress.
I jump up.
“Oh no!” I gasp.
I’m more upset than I should be—on the verge of tears, in fact. I’m upset about the dress, but it’s more than that. It’s the danger and the stress and the way Luka is stealing my soul.
I raise my gaze to his. “It’s all ruined.”