Page 92 of Salvatore

I press my lips shut, battling the mindless insurgence of humor that always seems to be so easily achieved by that sassy mouth. Even in my teenage years nobody would’ve dared contort my name into something as offensive as Sally. Yet this crazy wildfire sits atop my hardening cock, completely at my mercy, and attempts to throw a jab at me that only endeavors to increase my lust.

“You need to tell me what the hell is going on,” she demands. “Why did you even rescue me? Is this about you using the funeral home for evidence disposal? Am I a bargaining chip now that the cartel know?”

The cartel fucking know?

Her eyes narrow. “You weren’t aware of their insight.”

“No,” I grate. “How did you find out?”

“Gabriel. He was fishing for information and assumed I was involved. Now it makes a hell of a lot of sense as to why a notorious criminal like your brother would be all over my obsessively introverted best friend. Remy’s using her for the cremator.”

“That would definitely make the situation more acceptable, but unfortunately, no. He has a legitimately unhinged infatuation with Olivia.” One I’m beginning to understand every time I’m in Ivy’s vicinity. “What you see between them is real.”

Those narrowed eyes roll with contempt. “Great,” she mutters.

This time I don’t hold back my grin. Her sarcasm is fucking addictive.

I could live off of it. Gorge on it.

“But I’m assuming the agreement is still a thing. Am I also wrong in assuming you plan to use me against the cartel to keep the arrangement quiet?” she asks. “Because I’ve told you before, I can’t be used as bargaining power. I’m of no value to them.”

I raise a hand, gliding the back of my knuckles just below the grazed skin of her cheek. “I can see that.”

She winces and a watery tinge enters her eyes as she makes to push from my lap.

“Don’t.” I halt her escape with a tight arm around her waist. “I’m not the person that deserves your aggression.”

“Well, you’re the only one here.” She shoves me with a sniff. “And I’ve got a pent-up breakdown that needs an outlet.”

I can be that for her—an outlet, a punching bag. Hell, I’d let her chain me to a cellar floor and spit on me if she was that way inclined. I’ve sacrificed bigger parts of myself for people far less worthy.

“You know we’re alike, me and you.” I keep my arm locked around her as she makes a half-hearted effort to push at my chest. “Both betrayed by our fathers and ostracized from our own families.”

“And both in need of more therapy than a lifetime could possibly supply.” She wiggles, attempting to raise from my lap right before the driver takes a turn and sends her toppling back onto her ass.

I smirk. “Therapy isn’t for me.”

“I know.” She gives me a scathing look. “It shows.”

Fuck this woman and her incredibly perfect mouth. I don’t get how a few pithy remarks can have me acting as if I’m a dog on a leash, but that’s exactly how it feels—like I’m tethered to her, always eagerly anticipating another fucking treat.

I graze my fingers over her jaw to her chin and hold her face an inch from mine.

She stiffens, her posture rigid as fear enters her eyes.

I’ve triggered something. Reminded her of a trauma I assume the cartel inflicted.

“I won’t hurt you,” I promise.

Concern stares back at me. “Physically or?—”

“Physically, mentally, or otherwise.” I don’t know where the fucking words come from. They’re not me. Not my wheelhouse. But somehow they’re real. “I started a war for you—for a woman I barely know, for reasons I don’t even understand.”

“You did it for Remy,” she clarifies. “Who was doing it for Olivia.”

No. Not even close.

All my life I’ve done the opposite when it comes to my siblings wants and needs. If they craved peace, I’d give them anarchy. If they wanted loyalty, I’d dish out betrayal.

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