Page 69 of Wicked Savage

“That was so hot.” Her lips skim mine.

“Which part?” I laugh under my breath.

“All of it.”

“Forget food…” My mouth drops to her neck as she bends her head back, giving me space to explore every inch of skin. “I want you upstairs so I can have my fill of you.”

My fingers return to her drenched core, and I don’t even register the footsteps. Don’t notice the presence lingering in the doorway or the throat-clearing meant to get our attention. Not until?—

“Ms. Marinova, the food is ready. Should we serve it?”

My body goes rigid. A deafening pulse pounds in my ears.

Whatdid he just call her?

I heard it. Clear as day.

Marinova.

The name slams into me like a sledgehammer, splitting through my chest, ripping something vital apart.

Why thehelldid he call her that?

CHAPTER15

CILLIAN

Ms. Marinova.

Why? Why would he call her that fucking name?!

A wave of cold dread slams into my chest, choking the breath out of me.

I pull away from her instinctively. Confusion plays in my features as my gaze snaps between her and a man dressed in a white chef’s coat.

Dinara’s face pales, her chest heaving as though she’s suffocating, and the terror in her eyes is unmistakable.

Fear.

“What did you just call her?” My voice cracks like broken glass, raw, jagged.

Before I even realize it, I’m on him, my hand tight around his throat as I lift him off the ground and slam him against the wall.

“Cillian! What the hell are you doing?” Dinara’s words are shaky, frantic, as she tries to pry me off the guy whose face is rapidly turning purple.

His chest spasms, his lips parting as he struggles for air, his hands clawing weakly at mine. But I don’t care.

“What. Did. You. Call. Her?” My teeth grind, my words laced with a fury I can’t contain.

“I-I don’t understand. What did I do?” The chef’s voice shakes, gasping for air.

“Answer me, you son of a bitch! What did you call her?”

“Cillian!” she cries my name, her hands grabbing at me, the pain of her touch searing through me. “Please let me explain!”

“No!” I peer over at her from behind my shoulder. “You keep quiet.” My attention returns to the chef. “I asked you a question. What did you call her?”

He’s barely able to breathe, stuttering out his answer. “Ms.…Ms. Marinova?”

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