Page 16 of Ice Cold Christmas
Uh, oh. Yep, this was what she’d feared. After that kiss, after the way he’d looked at her. Even the fiercely possessive touch of his hands as he covered her in his shirt...All of that info pointed to one undeniable conclusion. Melody swallowed. “We’re lovers?” The question came out husky and breathless.
And, crap, she’d made another mistake. Her words had definitely sounded like a question. She tried again. “We’re lovers.” There. More definite. Maybe?
A muscle jerked along his jaw. He strode across the room. Headed straight for the bed. She expected him to drop her on top of it. Instead, he gently lowered her onto the soft bedding. Victor didn’t let go right away. His hands lingered.
She felt that linger in every inch of her body. Heat and electricity surged through her. A touch truly should not impact her so strongly. Yet, his did. Then again, it had really been one hell of a day.
A week.
A month.
A real nightmare of a year.
He finally let her go. Straightened, but didn’t back away from the bed. “How the fuck did you get that scar on your stomach?”
She gave a little eye roll as she sat up and swung her legs to the side of the bed. Melody didn’t rise. Instead, she perched on the edge of the mattress and peered up at him. A variety of potential responses spun through her mind, but Melody finally settled on, “It takes a lot to satisfy you, doesn’t it? I mean, one moment, you’re demanding I take off my shirt. I do it, only for you to immediately cover me up in your shirt.”
“I didn’t want that dumbass Dario staring at your chest!”
She’d been wearing a bra. Still was. A plain, white bra beneath his white dress shirt. “I don’t think my brother was going to be overwhelmed by seeing?—”
“Stepbrother, sweetheart. He’s your freaking stepbrother, and he’s been obsessed with you for years. No sense waving a red flag at the bull, not unless you want me to beat the shit out of him.”
Tension slithered down her spine. Victor had just revealed two very important things to her.
First…sweetheart. He’d called her sweetheart. And his voice had deepened even more and hitched with possessiveness when he dropped the endearment. You didn’t call your enemy sweetheart in quite that tone. Did you?
And second…What. The. Hell? Dario was obsessed with her? Her stepbrother?
“But you didn’t know that.” Victor nodded, as if he’d just had a confirmation that he actually expected. “Just like you don’t know how you got that scar on your shoulder, am I right?”
She needed to bluff. Immediately. “I got it from a knife.”
One dark eyebrow quirked.
“The blade of a knife,” she added. “A long time ago. Accidents happen.”
“It was no fucking accident. You were mugged. You’d just started that food pantry on West Lake, and you were coming home too damn late at night. You were mugged. The prick cut your purse strap and took the bag right off you. You were bleeding and scared, and you ran into a gas station, and you called me to come and get you.”
She’d called him? “Why would I call you?”
He blinked. Those dark eyes—obsidian. She knew the color because she’d been in a souvenir shop not too long ago, and she’d seen a chunk of obsidian for sale. She’d reached out and touched the black rock. It had felt smooth and strong beneath her fingertips. She’d stared and stared at it, even as the sales clerk had come by and started telling her that obsidian was a volcanic rock. It was supposed to offer protection. Truth. Some believed it even shielded its carrier against negative energy. She’d bought the small rock. Been drawn to it by a pull of familiarity that had seemed overwhelming.
She often kept it tucked in a pocket. When she was nervous or stressed, she’d reach for it.
The rock was currently in her bag, near the door. Her knife was in that bag, too. She’d shoved it in the bag before hurrying down the stairs.
Victor’s eyes were obsidian. Nearly a perfect match for the rock.
Nervous, her hands reached for the buttons on his shirt. The incorrectly matched buttons and holes. She began to undo the wrong buttons.
His hand flew out and stopped her, mid-button.
She sighed. A long, put upon sigh. “One minute, you’re telling me to take off my shirt. Now you’re trying to stop me from properly buttoning up?” She could feel the roughness on the tips of his fingers. Calluses. “You need to make up your mind.” She should probably go downstairs and get the sweater she’d left behind. Not like she wanted to lose that garment. It had been a lucky find.
“The scar on your stomach is new.”
“I think I left my sweater downstairs.”
