Page 41 of Salvatore

“I bet he fucking is.” She rakes a shaky hand through her hair and retreats. “He’s the only man she’s spoken about in years. Which then makes sense why she kept wanting to go to Smoke & Mirrors even when I tried to talk her out of it.” Ivy holds my gaze, but she’s no longer looking at me. Not really. She’s somewhere else—stuck in the churn of contemplation. “And she kept sneaking off… every time we went to his club…” The color drains from her bronzed skin, her attention narrowing. “Please tell me they’re not together.”

“I wish I could.”

Terror contorts her beauty into something less aesthetically pleasing, but ultimately still stunning. Then she swipes at the counter, reclaims the vodka bottle, and smashes the opening to her lips.

She winces through a gulp. Then another. And another.

“That’s enough.” I snatch the bottle from her hand, leaving her hyperventilating. “I take it you don’t approve of my brother.”

“Approve?” She barks a laugh. “You forget that I understand your world. I know the type of atrocities you men take pleasure in.”

“Is that right?”

She glares. “Yes, it is.”

I’m not sure if it’s alcoholic-fueled confidence, but the psycho in her eyes increases her man-eater beauty exponentially.

“Then indulge me in your insight,mi bella reina.”

She stares at me, stares so long and hard without speaking that I’m unsure if she’ll ever break the silence. Until finally, those pretty lips part. “No. I’m not letting my mind go back there for you.”

My hackles rise.

What did they do to her?

Why the fuck do I care?

I pour a generous finger of whiskey, hoping the effects will stop me from giving a shit, then shoot it down before making for the fridge. “You need to eat.” I pull open both sides of the double doors, needing a visual breather from her disheveled radiance. “What do you feel like? Leftover pizza? Grilled cheese?”

“I don’t need your food.” The slightest slur to her words proves otherwise.

I grab the pizza box and slam the fridge shut. “Then lay off the alcohol, troublemaker, and pull your shit together.” I dump the box on the counter, then grab her around the waist and haul her onto the kitchen counter, her shock at my manhandling not registering in her eyes until her ass hits the marble.

My own surprise doesn’t kick in until her knees are nestled against my gut and one shin skims across my hardening dick.

It’s pathetic how I keep touching her. Indulging in contact. I need to quit succumbing to that feminine softness. But here we are, me stunned into self-loathing silence while on the steep slide into intoxication, and her with flames in her eyes that allude to an upcoming verbal onslaught likely to make me nut in my pants.

Her lips part. “I?—”

“Quiet.” I yank open the pizza box, grab a slice of BBQ chicken, and raise it toward her mouth. “You need something to soak up that alcohol.”

“I can handle my liquor.” She remains defiant until her gaze catches on the nutrients right before her eyes, her brow furrowing slightly.

I bet she hasn’t eaten since the wake.

“Take a bite,” I demand.

She glowers, releasing a bull-ish huff through her nose, but inches forward to comply. “Happy now?” she asks around a dainty nibble, her hand raising to cover her mouth as she chews.

“Again.” I inch the slice back toward her.

Her glower intensifies, but she follows my command a second time, taking a bigger bite, the slightest hint of a grateful moan breeching her lips as she eats. The sound travels straight to my dick.

“This situation is messed up,” she mumbles around the food. “Liv doesn’t know what she’s getting herself into.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.” I take a bite of my own, needing the distraction, the fucking interference. The whiskey is messing with my head, making me itch to shove something else toward those tempting lips.

“You don’t know her. She barely leaves her house. She hates people. Everything unsettles her.”

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