I huff impatiently. “To put it mildly, the Hayashis disapproved of Mama’s courtship with Papa and shunned her for loving a ‘demon’ and carrying his ‘hellspawn.’ They cut us out like we were cancer. Never even gave me a chance.” My eyes water again. I drop them to my boots before he can see the tears. “Mama said they simply didn’t care, but I knew they thought I was evil.”
They weren’t wrong; Iamthe daughter of Salem’s most notorious crime lord.
My stare lifts to a demon on Brontë’s throat. Its glare is nefarious, its smile serrated as much as it is vile. It’s like looking in the mirror.
Is that why Leviathan is targeting my family? Has this been not a war, but a crusade? It would explain Quinn’s involvement; she’s a justice-seeker, after all.
How many lives are saved when a crime ring falls?
Warm, calloused fingers crook beneath my chin, tipping my head up. “You’re not evil, Poppy. I’ve seen true villains, and you hold no flame.”
It’s none of my business what happened to him and his siblings to make him say such things. I’d be lying, though, if I said I’m not more curious now than I’ve ever been.
The question is prancing on my tongue when he suddenly palms my jaw and leans down, planting a firm kiss to the hollow of my cheek. My lungs fill with his bittersweet musk as he lingers there for a long beat. I don’t know how he makes something so innocent feel so sinful. It’s agonizing in its torture, succulent in its sweetness.
It only leaves me wanting more.
The urge to capture that tempting mouth with mine is unbearable. I fist my knife to hang onto my own diminishing willpower. I shouldn’t want more. He’s made his feelings clear. It’s why I said what I did, why we need to remain distanced. I can’t fool myself into thinking we’ll ever be anything more than a criminal and coroner stuck in a reluctant alliance.
But I also can’t deny howrighthe feels this close to me.
I want him closer. I want him to push me against the wall. I want his hand on my throat and his body molding to mine as he steals a kiss then another and another.
Brontë inches back, pinning me with his smolder. He doesn’t withdraw. Confusion hazes over me as his thumb arcs the height of my cheekbone. He’s not looking at me like he doesn’t want me.
No, he’s looking at me like he wants to kiss me, too.
I lift my chin, my nose flirting with his. His free hand moves to my waist, fingers curling into my jacket pocket to tug me closer. My mouth opens in time with his—
“Aren’t you a little old to be sneaking in with a boy?”
We jerk back like a pair of teenagers caught with their clothes off, whipping our heads to see Mama looming in the dim hallway. A thin kimono of glossy black drapes around her elegant curves like liquid ink, the sleeves off-shoulder. Her skin is starlight, and her sleek hair is a curtain of the deepest shade of night. Candlelight dances upon the black and pink ink of the parent tattoo to mine: a Japanese dragon and cherry blossoms twining up her right shoulder. Her polite smile doesn’t quite reach her sharp, quicksilver eyes.
“Mama.” I bow before the queen of Salem’s underworld, motioning for Brontë to do the same. “Pardon the intrusion. This is Brontë Bourbon, a friend. We were on our way to speak with you and Papa.”
"We will be down in a minute."
"Actually, we were hoping to speak to you in private."
“What for?”
“We have a lead on Leviathan.”
“I see.” Distaste leaks from her tone as she turns toward the shadows ahead. “Follow me.”
Mama wordlessly guides us to the manor’s library, pushing through the double doors and ushering us in. Thick tomes cram the shelves built into the walls. Windows tinted black and spiderwebbing with frost overlook the city. A hearth straight ahead glows with flames blazing bright, warming a lightly furnished lounge area.
Papa is in his leather wingback, a glass of wine in his grip. He’s the spitting image of Grandpapa Lucian: rich umber hair, a jawline that could break knuckles, piercing blue eyes set in a perpetual leer. Like Grandpapa, he carries a cold presence with him; like the reaper lurks in his shadow.
Seated in the chair beside him with his own glass is a man I don’t recognize. A man with a pistol holstered at his hip and a badge on his belt.
My blood freezes, locking my limbs in place.
Why the hell is my father drinking with a fuckingcop?
TSUNAMI
Brontë
