She said it like a joke. Light. Casual. The kind of dark humor people use to cope.
But it isn't funny.
Not when there's a cartel hunting us. Not when someone tried to put a bullet through her window less than twenty-four hours ago. Not when the man who murdered my family is out there somewhere, waiting.
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't joke about dying."
Her smile fades.
"Dante—"
"I'm serious." My thumb strokes her cheekbone. "You're not going to die. Not while I'm breathing."
"You can't promise that."
"Watch me."
She stares at me for a long moment.
Then she rises on her toes and kisses me.
Soft. Sweet.
When she pulls back, her eyes are bright.
"Okay," she whispers. "Fuck me first. Then bath."
I don't need to be told twice.
Marina
Dante spins me around.
My hands slam against the bathroom wall. Cold tile against my palms. Steam rising from the tub behind us.
"Spread your legs."
His voice is rough. Commanding.
I obey.
His foot nudges my ankles wider. His hands grip my hips. Pull them back until I'm bent forward, my back arching.
"Dante—"
"Quiet."
One hand leaves my hip. Travels up my spine. Over my shoulder. Into my hair.
He gathers it in his fist. Wraps it around his knuckles.
Pulls.
My head tips back. My throat exposed.
