17. Remy
“You surf?” Rhea scoffs. She’s had a fair amount of wine, which is why I decide not to take offense to her disbelieving tone.
“Rhea,” I laugh. “We grew up on the beach. I live on the water. Of course, I learned to surf.”
Claire laughs too, commanding my attention. She looks transformed… not like the girl I brought into my home, and also not like the girl I pulled out of the warehouse a few days ago. It’s somewhere between comforting to see her recovering and also unsettling that the innocent girl who came here on my plane seems to be gone. This Claire, I decide, is most similar to the woman who threw herself at me with fire in her eyes. This is the woman who I painted with the blood of her living nightmare, the woman who I fucked fast and hard, but who deserved for me to take my time.
God, I want a redo. I want to lay her down and explore every inch of her body, both the parts that I covered with blood and the ones that I didn’t. I want to taste her on my tongue again, feel her hair wrapped around my fist, learn the noises she makes when she’s about to detonate. I want to consume her. This Claire is fucking divine, and I want to worship her the way gods deserve.
“Are you doubting me?” I smirk.
“No,” Claire laughs. “It’s just… I’m trying to imagine you outside of… this.” She gestures to me as if that single word is capable of explaining whatever is in her head.
“This?”
“Yes, this. Imagining you outside of this ‘all business’ persona.”
“I think,” Wes pipes up, “that she is saying she is having a hard time imagining you without a stick up your ass.”
Cocky motherfucker.
I deliberately ignore him, which isn’t too hard as I’d forgotten he was there anyway, looking morose between my two men. “You’ve seen me without all this.”
It’s a bold admission, considering my sister has explicitly warned me not to mess with her best friend. It says enough without saying too much, while also being rife with innuendo. I also don’t know if Claire will be angry at me for exposing that information, though the color that rushes to her cheeks doesn’t look like it’s put there entirely by embarrassment. She holds my gaze.
My cock twitches, restless with the memory of being inside her—a memory I wholly intend to recreate.
“Wow, Claire,” Wes demands our attention again. I was capable of disregarding him when he addressed me, but hearing her name on his tongue sends rage rippling down my spine. I hate that he’s even here, breathing her air, let alone looking at her.
He waits until everyone collectively turns to him—even Dimitri and Michael are watching him expectantly. He eats up every moment of it, tossing me a glance out of the corner of his eye to make sure that I’m listening. “If I’d known all it would take to get you to drop your panties was to tell you I was rich, I’d have told you before I dropped you on the doorstep.”
My chair scrapes the floor as I move on instinct, ready to bash his head against my table and use his hair to mop up the blood he sheds. Dimitri beats me to it, jumping out of his seat. His fist is already flying through the air, colliding with Wes’ jaw.
Rhea jumps up too, covering her mouth but failing to suppress a delicate scream.
Elaine rushes into the room, nearly dropping the platter of cheesecake when she catches a glimpse of Wes on the ground, Dimitri’s knuckles sending blood splattering across the tablecloth. By the time I drop to Dimitri’s side and place a gentle hand on his shoulder, he’s gotten a good beating in on my insufferable half-brother. That smug smile on his face is gone for one thing, and blood trickles from his lip and floods his mouth.
Dimitri stops immediately once I bring him to his senses, rising and adjusting the collar of his shirt as if he’s just done something undignified. I quite enjoy the view of Wes on the ground, though, whimpering in pain. Though his face was previously untouched, he’s taken quite a beating to the rest of him this week… kicks, punches, the few shallow wounds left when I sliced him with a blade… the same one, I assured him, that we’d used to kill Giante while he listened, helpless, in the next room, waiting for his turn. A spot of blood on his stomach, still spreading over the starched white shirt I had to lend him, assures me Dimitri got in a jab or two below the collar… he may even have to stich Wes back up again.
“Apologies,” Dimitri says, straightening his tie and turning toward Claire and Rhea as if he’s just blown Wes’ head off in front of them. It’s not a necessary apology, though I do prefer to have my sister far removed from the violence of this world. I also don’t like her to hear a man spouting disrespect and getting away with it. “I just got angry. The disrespect.”
Rhea blinks, wide eyes matching her gaping mouth. She’s too stunned to notice that right next to her, Claire is grinning wide with amusement. She wipes it away with a long swig from her bottle, wrapping her hands around the neck and tipping it back. I reach a hand out to Wes, who’s struggling to sit up despite one hand pressed against his stomach. When he grabs my elbow, allowing me to hoist him up, I consider getting in a hit of my own. But there will be time for that later, so I pull him in so that only he can hear my harsh whisper. “You don’t talk to her. You don’t say her name ever again. And if you so much as look at her, I’ll send Michael to your room tonight with boiling bleach so that the last thing you see in this world is my cellar. Hmm?”
“Um,” Rhea laughs nervously, noting that our embrace has lasted a touch long. “You guys good?”
I let go of him, causing Wes to lose his balance enough that he has to grip the edge of the table to keep from swaying on his feet. “My apologies, Claire.” A thrill of satisfaction floods through me as he mumbles the words without seeking her face, though I notice he said her name. He’ll pay for that later. “I forgot myself for a moment there. Perhaps I’ve outstayed my welcome.”
He absolutely has, considering I never wanted him here in the first place. When no one objects, Michael stands, buttoning his jacket. “Well, that was an interesting poker night, but I think someone should drive him. I’m not sure your friend should be driving with blood in his eyes. The roads are so dark at this time of night.”
Wes opens his mouth, but Michael’s firm hand on his shoulder surely tells him there’s no room for negotiation here. “Thank you for dinner,” he says, wiping blood from his face with the linen napkin. As he drops it on the table, he looks for a moment as though he’s about to meet Claire’s gaze.
But he’s smarter than he looks sometimes. He smiles at Rhea instead. “It was lovely seeing you again.”