"That doesn't exactly fix the 'hate me' part."
"Yes, it does."
She exhales slowly, and something in my chest shifts with it. She glances at the garment. "Are you sure I should wear that dress?"
The question comes out smaller than her usual tone. I insist, "Wear it or pick something different. Whatever makes you walk into a room as if you could bulldoze it. But don't take your knife. We're aiming for approachable tonight."
"Says the man who gave me a weapon in my mask," she shoots back.
"That's for council business. Tonight is family. I'll carry the weapons."
She corrects, "Your family. Not mine."
I correct, "My family and yours. I'm not married to myself."
"You aren't?"
"Pretty sure."
Her eyes drift over me. She offers, "You clean up nicely, O'Malley." She smooths a hand over my chest. "Brenna will probably approve."
"I am not worried about Brenna's approval," I say, sliding my hands down to her hips. "I am worried about yours."
She arches a brow. "You think I would punish you for bringing me to dinner?"
"I think you might punish me later for how it goes," I answer, letting my thumbs trace slow circles against her dress. "So I think I need to collect interest in advance."
Her lips curve, eyes dropping to my mouth. "Interest?"
"Collateral," I amend, dipping my head.
I kiss her, not gently. There's no point pretending dinner is all that's on my mind. Her mouth opens under mine, the taste sharp and addictive. She steps in, closing the last of the distance, pressing fully against me. One of her hands goes to the back of my neck, the other slides under my shirt at the hem. She drags her nails along my bare skin.
Relentless heat slams through me. I walk her backward until her knees hit the mattress and she tumbles onto it with a small, startled sound that turns into a low laugh.
"We're going to be late if I don't shower and wash my hair," she warns, even as she hooks a finger in my belt loop and pulls me down over her.
"Fashionably late," I murmur against her throat, kissing down the column of it, tasting the hint of whatever lotion she used, reveling in the way her breath hitches.
"If we are late, Brenna will blame me," she protests weakly.
"We won't be. There's plenty of time for a quickie. Besides, if we're late, I'll tell her I couldn't keep my hands off my wife."
Her pupils blow wide, and her fingers tighten at my nape.
I kiss her neck, murmuring, "My wife is coming to dinner after I ruin her lipstick."
"Then you'll have to take a shower to hide the evidence."
"Great. I'll show you a good time there, too," I boast.
She laughs, low and genuine, and whatever anxiety she had about tonight drains out of the room, replaced by something hotter, stronger, more dangerous. It has nothing to do with clans and councils and everything to do with us.
For a few stolen minutes, I'm convinced that everything will be okay.
25
Valentina
