Veins cording his long arms and big hands bulge as he grips his belt and flicks it loose. Hypnotized, I watch him unbutton his pants and unhurriedly unwind the zipper. He lets the thick fabric fall, nudging it aside with one powerful, tattooed leg. His black boxers are tight enough for me to see the outline of his cock swollen halfway to a full erection.
Fuck,he’s enormous. It’s not natural for any man to have the manhood of a god, is it?
Saliva pools onto my tongue, and I audibly swallow. He climbs in and lowers onto his back beside me, fingers interlocking under his head as he lets out a heady groan of relief. The mattress gasps beneath his weight, wafting his scent over to me on a cloud of bourbon and cherry smoke.
I really,reallyneed Bax to replicate that aroma as vape juice.
As I slide the furs over him, my focus locks onto a broken sword inked on his left thigh. I reach across him and—
“Poppy, hands.”
I scowl, pointing to the blade rather than touching it. “That’s a broken sword.”
“Ah,oui.” His tense body relaxes. “Narsil, the sword of Elendil. Before it became Andúril, the sword of Gondor.”
“I thought Dantë was the nerd,” I utter, lying on my side to face him. “What does it mean?”
“After Elrond had it reforged for Aragorn, it became a symbol of—”
“Clarification: What does it mean toyou?”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “Revival. Harmony. Hope for a better world.”
“That’s…beautiful.” Tentatively, I feather the tip of my forefinger over his scarred cheek. Despite his earlier warnings, he leans into my touch. I take his unspoken invitation to shift closer and trace the raised flesh in a soothing line. “You’re more broody than usual tonight.”
“Oh, lovely. More high compliments.”
I poke the edge of his frown. “What’s bothering you?”
“Nothing you should concern yourself with.”
“If it’s responsible for your rapidly growing age lines, I beg to differ.”
Brontë closes his eyes, his chest expanding with a full breath. “It’s Quinn. She’s been on my mind lately.”
My ears perk. He hasn’t mentioned her since the night I woke up. “Tell me what happened.”
“That’s the thing: I’m still trying to make sense of it.” He relays his experience of discovering Quinn’s secret affair with Scull and herexplanation for being involved with Leviathan before their spat ended on a sour note. “When you and I showed your parents the video of Quinn planting that poppet at my house, Scull had ample opportunity to clear the air. Instead, he played dumb and let us believe he was chasing a lead. Why waste everyone’s time, including his own?”
My heart skips as the answer clicks—and suddenly, it all makes sense. “That Machiavelli son of a bitch.”
Brontë peeks at me from the corners of his eyes. “Machiavelli?”
“Hai.The man who wrote the controversial classic about ruling with an iron fist.” His expression remains blank. I huff, pointing to the bookshelf above our heads. “It’s embroidered in gold. Grab it.” When he does, I finger through it, explaining, “Niccolò Machiavelli wrote this entire book dedicated to sovereigns. His ideals were radical but effective: power comes to those who strive to be feared rather than loved. Only those who are willing to rise by any means necessary will succeed in their reign. Especially through deceit and ruling with an iron fist.”
“And you have this because…?”
“I’m the daughter of a crime lord. Do the math.” I close the book and splay a palm over the cover. “Scull is likely using Quinn as a diversion. He’s manipulating her while simultaneously distracting us. It’s genius, really. The more he leads us down the wrong path, the longer he has to fulfill his vendetta. I wouldn’t be surprised if he set Quinn up from the start.”
The revelation washes over him, shock quickly replacing the confusion. “Scull is a member of Leviathan.”
“Not just a member.”
“A Master?”
I nod. “It’s a probable theory, but we still need proof. Do you know where he lives?”
“Oui.” He tosses the duvet aside and begins to rise. “He’s been spending his nights with Quinn at the office. I’ll be back in—”
