Page 42 of Ruthless Silence
I'm supposed to be tending his wounds, but my fingers trace lower than necessary, following the V of muscle that disappears into his pants. My thighs clench.
He notices. Of course he notices. His hand catches mine, and his eyes promise he remembers too. He's getting hard, the evidence pressing against his pants, and my mouth waters. I hate that I know what he tastes like when I should only know how he bleeds.
"You feel too much," he signs with his free hand.
"I feel everything," I admit, the words raw. "I hate that you're human. I hate that my pussy gets wet when you kill for me. I hate that I know exactly how you taste."
His eyes darken to black, and for a moment I think he'll break, close the distance between us. His cock is fully hard now, and my body screams to drop to my knees, to take him in my mouth, to learn what that part of him tastes like too, to forget everything in the oblivion of sex.
Instead, he steps back, giving me space when every line of his body says he wants to claim me against the nearest surface.
I wrench away from his touch, stumbling toward the bathroom. "I can't. I need—"
He doesn't follow, doesn't try to stop me. Just watches with those dark eyes that see too much, know exactly how wet I am, how much I want him despite everything.
The bathroom door locks with a satisfying click. I lean against it, chest heaving, thighs pressed together trying to ease the ache between them.
In the mirror, a wild woman stares back. Tear-stained cheeks, blood on her dress, eyes that can't reconcile what they've seen. Is this a daughter? A wife? A whore who gets wet while crying over her enemy's scars?
I grip the sink until my knuckles match Dante's bandaged ones. Papa's blood demands justice. But my body demands Dante's touch, his cock, his possession. The war between these truths is tearing me apart.
"Who are you?" I whisper to my reflection.
Outside the door, I hear Dante moving quietly, giving me space but staying close. Still protecting me, even from myself. He's out there, hard and wanting, respecting my need for distance when we both know I'm wet enough to take him right now.
I still have to kill him. The thought arrives with cold certainty, even as my body throbs with need. Papa's blood demands it, and I can't dishonor his memory more than I already have. But my body burns for the enemy, wet and aching and thoroughly ruined for anyone else.
20 - Dante
Ana sleeps on the couch, pain medication making her breathe deep and even. Her wounded arm rests on a pillow, fresh bandages spotted with blood that makes my jaw clench every time I look at it. The red dress from last night lies destroyed on the floor, evidence of how close Detroit came to taking what’s mine.
I watch from my chair, unable to look away. Even drugged and wounded, she's devastating. The way she fought last night, three perfect kills with a dinner knife and borrowed gun. My cock stirs at the memory. My little warrior.
The door opens without a knock.
Only one person in this house would fucking dare.
"Brother." Luca's voice carries that specific tone that makes sane people reach for weapons. "Sister."
That wrong smile plays at his lips as he enters uninvited, pale blue eyes already reading everything. Ana's position, her bandages, the destroyed dress on the floor like a promise of violence.
He's back from wherever Marco sent him, and, of course, he's come straight to my bedroom. To Ana's bedroom.
I'm between them before my unhinged brother takes another step. My body blocks his view of her, shoulders squared in clear warning.Touch her and I'll forget we share blood.
"Protective." Luca tilts his head, studying my stance with academic interest. "How unlike you, Dante. You've never cared about your toys before."
My hands sign sharp and aggressive: "Not a toy."
"No?" He circles the room, predator studying prey, trying to get a better angle on Ana. "Heard she killed three men last night. Efficiently."
The way he says 'efficiently' makes my skin crawl. Like he's evaluating her performance, grading her technique. His pale blue eyes hold that particular light that appears when he's found something interesting to dissect.
"The throat strike was particularly clean," he continues, moving closer to the couch. "And using a steak knife? Creative. Most people don't realize the serrated edge can open an artery just as well as any blade."
My hand signs a single phrase: "Back off."
He pauses, that terrible smile widening. "Just observing. She's fascinating."
