Page 49 of Brutal Vows
Relieved, I roll my eyes. “So we’re agreed?”
His gaze drops to my mouth. His hands tighten around my shoulders. My heartbeat goes haywire.
Then, in a weary voice that sounds like he’s a thousand years old, he says, “Aye, viper. We’re agreed. The wedding is the last time we’ll see each other.”
“Okay. Oh … wait.”
“What?” he growls, aggravated.
“What should I tell her about all the rest of the times?”
“What times?”
“Birthdays. Anniversaries. Holidays.” I gasp in horror. “Christmas!Oh, God, Quinn, what am I supposed to tell her about why I can never come visit her for Christmas?”
“Maybe you should’ve thought of that before you unleashed your demon tongue on me.”
“But—”
“You’ll think of something!” he interrupts loudly. “Jesus Christ on a fucking crutch, you’re enough to drive a man to drink!”
He releases me, drags both hands through his hair, emits a sound a rabid bear might make, and turns to head in the direction of the kitchen.
Halfway down the corridor, he turns back abruptly and shouts, “Don’t forget about my bloody supper, woman!”
He turns around and continues down the hall, leaving me seething.
He’s ordering me around again? He just banned me from seeing my own niece, and now he’s hollering commands at me about making his goddamn dinner?
And he’s calling me WOMAN?
Glaring with narrowed eyes at his retreating back, I mutter, “I hope you like spider stew.”
ELEVEN
SPIDER
Once in the kitchen, I head straight to the wine fridge, pull out a bottle of Cabernet, and bring it over to the big marble island. I grab a corkscrew and open the wine, all the while breathing deeply to try to calm my throbbing heartbeat.
That fucking female could give me a heart attack.
And not only because of those perfect tits.
“Hey. Irish.”
I’m so startled by the voice, I drop the corkscrew and curse. “Christ! I didn’t see you there.”
Reyna’s mother sits at the kitchen table, squinting at me from behind her glasses.
It’s unnerving how she does that. It’s as if the woman can materialize out of thin air, like Dracula.
I exhale hard and add in a more civilized tone, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Caruso. I’m not myself today.”
She snorts and says something in Italian.
I don’t know what it is. I also don’t want to know. I grab twowineglasses from the cabinet and bring them and the bottle over to the table.
I sit down across from her, open the wine, pour us both a glass, and raise mine.“Sláinte.”
