“Don’t get into his car!” Malachi yells.
“Eyes on me, Lowry,” she says, as she climbs in.
Not a hardship.
“Electra, I swear…” Malachi’s voice vibrates with the sort of fury that makes me picture my departure from Boston, not with a spell but zipped up in a body bag.
“Don’t mind him,” she murmurs.
But I do mind him, because if he kills me before I can set foot on Atlantis, then Quinn never goes free.
“I’m guessing you didn’t read my last texts?” Electra says, rolling her neck as though the altercation with Malachi tensed her up.
Certainly tensed me up.Fuck.
I squeeze my steering wheel so tightly as I drive away from Tarian’s estate that I worry I might actually end up warping the plastic. “I try not to look at my phone when I’m driving. What did you send me?”
As I slow at the reddening traffic light, I find Electra studying my strained knuckles.
I relax my grip, even though I fail to relax my shoulders, which are as stiff as the backrest. “Did you ask me to lose your number?”
“Something like that.”
“Our scheme is obviously working. Did you see how angry he got when you chose me?”
“He thinks of me as a sister,” she says, clicking open some ride app on her phone and canceling her request.
Explains why she was standing outside.
“I have a sis—Hada sister. I never looked at her like he looks at you.”
“You’re imagining things, Cillian.”
“I’m not.”
“Just becauseyouwant to fuck me doesn’t mean anyone else does.”
Her words shoot straight into my groin as I suddenly picture her sprawled beneath me, bare of clothes, legs parted in invitation, nipples peaked in anticipation. Would she taste like the women I’ve had, or did the Atlanteans taste different?
“Cillian?”
“Hmm.” The sound of my false name does nothing to subdue the throbbing between my legs as I stare at the stone-cold beauty sitting in my station wagon.
“The light’s green,” she says.
Still, I don’t floor the gas pedal, enjoying the sight of her next to me, splashed in neon light. Especially when the latter catches on her very tight top and the tits carving into the fabric.
“Stop undressing me with your eyes and drive.”
My blood feels molten as I return my attention to the road. “Where to, Miss Serran?”
I will her to say:My bed.
She lets her spine kiss the backrest. “Take me to your favorite place in Boston.”
Her answer snaps me out of my lustful reveries, because I think she’s giving me the illusion of control over our destination to avoid revealing where she lives. I could be wrong. I hope I am.
I push my hoodie sleeves up as I finally gun the Volvo across the intersection. My favorite place isn’t in this city, but I obviously can’t take her to Kennebunkport. Too many people know me up there.
