She doesn’t seem to notice the way I stiffen.
Or ignores it.
We round a corner and a young man steps into her path. Her friend. Some grinning idiot whose eyes go wide when he sees her. He asks about a class he missed. She laughs. He laughs. They stand too close. His hand almost touches her arm.
Maybe Boris. Doesn’t matter. He has a dick.
My vision narrows.
Uncle’s voice arrives.
Kill him. Kill him now. Kill him in front of her so she learns.
Mother’s voice is louder:
Don’t scare her, Gustav.
Frustrated, I step forward without thinking. My hand fists the collar of her coat and jerks her backward. She hits my chest hard, breath leaving her in a soft gasp. Her body fits against me perfectly, her back small against my front. My arm wraps tight around her ribs, pinning her where I want her.
Her sweet scent hits me at once. Mine.
I lower my face to her neck and bite the soft skin there, slow and claiming. Her breath stutters as my teeth drag along her pulse. The voices quiet. They always quiet when I taste her.
I look up from under my brow at the boy.
He freezes. He knows who I am.
He leaves.
Good.
She tilts her head in confusion when I release her, her brows pulled together like she doesn’t understand why I did it. Why I needed to do it.
She takes my hand gently. Then she lifts it and presses a kiss to my knuckles, then holds her lips on my gold wedding band. The gesture is small, but it detonates in my chest. She is speaking my dark language without words, the display calming.
A pause.
She whispers, “No one else can have my heart.”
The way she says it is sincere and vulnerable, a pure confession. I feel myself harden instantly.
I don’t say anything.
Then Keira and Tyra, an American she must have snuck over, appear down the walkway. Peighton smiles at them. I feel the familiar irritation spike. Too many people want her attention. Too many faces pull her away from me when I’m still on edge.
My Uncle’s voice growls, suddenly as clear as ever:
Break their necks. Bury them. Then strangle her. Fuck the plan.
But she interrupts the order by touching my wrist and saying she is hungry.
“I bet you’re hungry, too,” she adds.
Hm. She wants to feed me. That won’t help.
“I’m a good cook.” Her voice is hopeful, almost pleading.
...She wants to take care of me.
