Storm keeps smiling, those two sharp canines noticeable even in the night.
Then he moves so fast I don’t understand what’s happening at first.
He has his arm around Dax’s neck, drawing him in as if for a twisted hug, and Dax is forced to bend one knee, practically leaning into Storm’s chest to balance himself, his cheek pressed to Storm’s black shirt. The bottle of vodka still sways from one hand but with the other, Dax tries to press Storm back, but Storm easily holds him close.
Storm’s blue eyes meet mine, and as he holds Dax close in the macabre embrace, he lowers the lit cigarette in his hand to Dax’s face.
No.My lips form the word but it’s not audible. I know Storm understood it all the same because he tilts his head with that strange smile growing wider. Then, never looking away from me as Dax struggles, he presses the burning tip of the cigarette to Dax’s cheek, right underneath his eye.
My stomach jumps beneath my hand, twisting into knots.
Dax makes a sound somewhere between a groan and a plea, and Storm doesn’t let up with the cigarette.
Then I watch Dax swing his arm, the one holding the liquor bottle, but Storm drops the now dead cigarette and catches the bottle easily, flipping it in his hand so he’s holding it upside down, by the neck, like a weapon.
He steps forward, still holding Dax, then hits the bottle against the edge of the bench opposite from where I’m lying. The glass shatters and Storm shifts their positions so they’re facing me sideways, and the edge of the jagged glass is on my thigh.
I freeze with the feel of it and Dax stops struggling in Storm’s arms.
“Now,” he says to Dax, no longer looking at me. “You’re going to listen to what I have to say, or I’m going to make sure you canneverfuck her, do you understand?”
Dax’s eyes dart to mine and I see true fear in his gaze, but he doesn’t say anything. He obliges though by staying completely still in his twisted headlock.
“Lift up your hand,” Storm says, no emotion in his tone.
Dax starts to lift his hand that held the bottle, but Storm glides the glass over my bare thigh and my muscles jump.
“No,” Storm says. “The one that touched her.”
I have a queasy feeling in my belly, but I still don’t move. It’s like Storm controls all of us. We’re just puppets on his strings.
Dax says, “Man, look, I don’t want any trouble?—”
“Oh,” Storm cuts him off. “You’re already in that, buddy.”
Dax swallows hard, the sound audible in the night, then he slides his hand up between where Storm is holding him close, so that his bicep is pressed to Storm’s chest and his fingers are right by Storm’s mouth.
Storm glides the jagged glass over my skin and I think I’ll have light scratch marks.
But he doesn’t stop as he looks at me and, fully intent on my face, he opens his mouth, and sucks on two of Dax’s fingers. Two that touched my clit.
My face feels like it’s on fire.
Dax seems frozen.
My thighs tremble and my hand is still on my breast and I feel sickeningly warm and I can’t stop watching as Storm flicks his tongue out, groaning as he does, his focus wholly on me.
Then he lifts his chin and his lips come off Dax’s fingers with apop.
“She tastes so good, doesn’t she?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. Without any warning, he shoves Dax away from him—away from me, back toward the house—then holds up the broken glass bottle. “Now get the fuck inside or I’ll take those fingers off.”
Dax is crouched down, hands up, like he’s preparing for a fight or to fend off a blow.
His chest is heaving beneath his unbuttoned shirt and his eyes dart frantically from me to Storm and back again. “Let her come with me,” he says.
Storm sighs. He reaches back, placing his hand on my belly, just above where my phone rests. His skin is cool, his hand spanning nearly the width of my ribcage, and his touch is possessive. “Tell him to get back inside before he loses a limb,” he says, and I know the words are for me.
“Sloane,” Dax starts. “Let’s go. You shouldn’t be around this guy.”
