“You know her all too well,” I say between bites as Annamaria practically skips to grab her ice cream.
They both settle on the floor with me, all of us digging into our food as if it were some kind of makeshift midnight picnic.
“This is nice,” Annamaria says, looking between Marcello and me. “We should do this more often.”
Marcello glances at our sister with an encouraging smile, though there’s a sadness in his eyes he can’t fully hide. Even if he won’t say it, I know these late-night picnics won’t become a recurring thing.
Marcello is slowly moving out of our home. Slowly drifting away from us, too. Not because he wants to, but because he thinks he has to. Because he doesn’t trust himself to stay with us too long, afraid of what we might see if he does. Of what he might do.
The monster that lives and breathes inside him is starting to win the fight my dear brother has bravely fought for so long. Piece by piece, he carves at his soul. Hatches at it. Chips and scrapes at the edges, like a vulture picking clean whatever pieces Marcello leaves unguarded.
Deep down, I know I should savor every little, quiet moment I still get with my brother… before he slips away completely. Before the Mar I knew is no more. Before all that’s left of my once shy, sensitive brother… is the devil himself.
The second class finally releases me from academic hell, I start plotting how to convince my dad, Dom, to sneak in a second training session before dinner. I’m reaching for my phone to text him when a familiar shape in the parking lot catches my eye.
Fuck my life.
Leaning against the hood of my car, as if he owned it as well as the concrete it’s parked on, Kirill’s trademark smirk is already waiting for me. Even under his long black coat, he somehow still manages to show off those broad shoulders and ridiculous biceps. And don’t even get me started on how the asshole loves wearing black shirts with the top two buttons undone just so he can show off the ink on his neck. Men like him shouldn’t exist. It’s bad for feminism all around and worse for my self-control.
After last night, I shouldn’t be surprised to see him again so soon. He’s made it pretty damn clear he’s on the hunt. It’s almost laughable. As if I could ever be the prey.
Still, the sight of him doesn’t annoy me like it should. If anything, he’s exactly the distraction I needed—a welcome reprieve from professors, essay deadlines, and the hell that is group projects. Not that I’ll ever let him know that.
“You scratch my car, you’re buying me a new one,” I say by way of greeting.
That earns me one of his mischievous grins, slow and knowing, entirely too pleased with himself.
Goddamn it. The man is sex on a stick, and he knows it. Ihatethat he knows it.
“Always with a snarky comment,” he says, pushing off the hood and closing the distance between us as if he had every right to.
“Hold your horses, Casanova.” I plant a hand on his chest before he can get close enough to scramble my brain any further. “What do you want?”
“Maybe I just wanted to see you.”
“Right.” I roll my eyes. “Now what do you really want?”
Kirill’s smirk widens into dangerous territory, and of course, my pulse trips over itself the moment his dark eyes lock onto mine.
“Back at that ball,” he starts, his voice low and intimate, “I seem to remember making you a promise I haven’t fully delivered on yet.”
“I don’t remember a promise,” I counter, feigning boredom. “Just an invitation.”
“It does my ego good that you remember that night so clearly.”
“Cut the bullshit, Kill, and tell me why you’re here.”
“Give me your phone.”
“Say what now?”
He doesn’t bother repeating himself. Instead, he steps in closer, snaking an arm around my waist, his hand slipping into my back pocket to steal my phone. I only realize I’ve been holding my damn breath when he steps back and perches on my hood again, completely unbothered.
I don’t even reprimand him for sitting on the hood this time. Instead, I move closer, trying to see what the hell he’s doing to my phone.
Bad idea. Before I know it, he hooks an arm around me again and pulls me between his strong, bracketed thighs like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“There,” he says, handing the phone back. “Now you have my number. Call it.”
