“Hey,” Abbie slurs, her grin loose, her body swaying like a metronome set to drunk-girl tempo. She hands me a cup of some bright green liquor that looks absolutely disgusting and smells even worse. “Where’d you go?”
“Oh, uh…” I picture the dungeon-like room below. The gloved hands. The bags full of poison. Carrson’s voice in my ear.I killed them, and I don’t feel bad about it.
“Carrson wanted to talk,” I say, making sure my tone is light, like I didn’t just have the worst fight of my life with the man I’m fake-bonded to. “That’s all.”
“Yeah, right,” Samantha snorts. Loud enough to draw looks.“Hard to talk with his tongue down your throat.”
My stomach twists.
She looks me over, her eyes catching on the strap of my tank top, on the bruise that’s forming on my collarbone from where Carrson kiss-bit me. “Guess you two reallyarebonded,” she says, with a huff. “Since he couldn’t keep his hands off you.”
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Iwantto say she’s wrong, that she doesn’t know the half of it, but I pause because Carrson may be a good actor, but the way he touched me, the way his lips brushed my neck, the way his hands gripped my hips.
That wasn’t performance. That was possession.
Samantha’s jealous because she felt how real it was too.
Heat climbs up my neck. Shame. Rage.Confusion.
Before I can think of something sharp to say, Samantha’s gaze shifts, over my shoulder. Her mouth curls.
“Oh, look,” she drawls. “Speak of the devil.”
I turn.
Carrson stands across the room, backlit by stained glass and candlelight like some kind of unholy saint. Shadows cling to him, merging with his messy dark hair and his haunted eyes. They pour down his shoulders, wrap around his spine, and crawl across the hard angles of his face.
He doesn’t look like a boy.
He doesn’t even look like a man.
He looks like a deity.
A ruined god, fallen to walk among mortals. Built to command. Built to destroy. The bruise swelling around his eye, the blood smeared across his collar, only make him look stronger. More lethal. Like violence carved him into something beautiful and didn’t bother smoothing the edges.
He lifts a liquor bottle to his lips and takes a slow sip, surveying the room lazily as if there’s no rush. Like everyone and everything here belongs to him, and he knows it.
He is devastatingly handsome.
And unfortunately?
He also looksreally,reallyhot.
Like ruin-you-for-all-other-men hot.
Like forget-you’re-mad-at-him hot.
The bastard.
I’m not the only one noticing it. A leggy, drop-dead gorgeous blonde clings to Carrson’s side. Red lips. Red dress. So tight it might as well be painted on. My worst nightmare in six-inch heels. She leans in close, her hand curling over his shoulder as she whispers something in his ear. He tilts his head toward her, listening. When she pulls back, her fingers trail down his chest, slow and deliberate.
“Who the fuck is that?” Sam asks, doing a full 180 like she’s suddenly onmyside. Which actually makes sense. She’s territorial as hell. If it’s between me and some random chick trying to sink her claws into Carrson, she’ll choose me. Every time.
“I don’t recognize her,” answers Cicley with a frown. “Maybe she’s from town?”
We all watch as the blonde throws her head back and laughs, loud and fake, like Carrson just whispered the world’s dirtiest joke in her ear. She presses against him, arching her spine so her chest is practically in his face, one perfectly manicured hand running slowly, intimately, down to his belt.
She’s not just flirting. She’sclaiming,and he’s letting her. Carrson doesn’t look particularly invested, but he’s also not stopping her. Not stepping away. Not saying no.
