“You need to relax.” Leilani rises on her toes, kissing my jaw softly. “You look like you’re about to spontaneously combust, Koby. Trust me, okay? I know what I’m doing.”
“I know.”
And I fucking hate that she knows him well enough to thread his head with worry like a needle through fabric.
That’s what we agreed in Dante’s office last night: we start by rattling Anton’s composure.
Up until now, Leilani’s played the part of his sweetheart perfectly. He hasn’t doubted her, or her safety, but she’s about to change that. Not drastically. Just enough to undermine the foundations before demolishing them next week.
She grabs a baby blue dress she packed for the call and locks herself in the bathroom. The shower starts running seconds later and I keep myself busy, setting up the room.
I shove an armchair into a blank corner, adjust the burner phone until the frame is nothing but the wall, and lock the door.
Nine twenty-nine.
The hair dryer hums behind a closed door.
I sit on the bed, cracking my knuckles until a dull ache seeps into my joints. I’ve sat through every one of their calls since Leilani moved in, but this one’s different.
Instead of appeasing the fucker, she’ll flash a red flag.
She’ll prod him, planting seeds of doubt. Not big enough to make him raid Octavius’s house, immediately demanding to see her, but enough that a nagging feeling of wrongness will poison his system until she calls him next Saturday, panicked, crying, and begging for help.
It’s a fine line. One false move and Anton might jump-start the plan and consequently derail it.
Nine fifty-four.
The bathroom door cracks open.
Leilani comes out, dolled up in the worst way. The dress flares under her breasts, lace around her thighs cutting it off. Her hair’s up, secured with a ribbon, cheeks artificially pink.
The hickey I put on her throat last night has disappeared under a thick layer of concealer and all I can think about is wetting my thumb and rubbing the spot raw.
She moves with the practiced grace Anton loves, shoulders soft, smile faint, eyes dropped. My jaw flexes, annoyance flaring behind my ribs. Every time she becomes this little helpless thing I so badly want to ruin her that I can taste copper.
“I hate when you look like his plaything,” I admit. “You turn your pretty face into a mask and I want to rip it off you.”
She stops at the foot of the bed, draping both arms over my neck. “I’m not his.”
No, she’s not. She’s mine. Iknowthat. I also know I shouldn’t feel this fucking violent, but I do.
When she looks so helpless, the last thing on my mind is protecting her... but when she’s feral, loud, or even just reading a book on my couch, a soft thing in me wakes.
It’s a paradox. A contradiction I can’t wrap my head around.
Soft Leilani turns me savage.
Real Leilani makes me gentle.
She glances at my wristwatch then leans in for a kiss, her lips and taste calming me down enough that I probably won’t shatter the burner phone into tiny fragments against the wall.
“It’s time,” she says, moving to the armchair.
She smooths the dress before taking a seat, pinching and rolling the hem between two fingers. I can’t tell if she’s nervous or just settling into the little girl role.
Ten o’clock.
The phone rings.
