Page 33 of Roma Queen
The sound of a throat being cleared interrupts us. When I look up, Patrin’s standing a foot away, holding up a bottle of whiskey. Most of the clan members who left after they voted have returned and many of them have grabbed an extra coat and a bottle of liquor, just as Patrin has, which they’re now passing around between them to ward off the cold.
Zara gasps, looking up at the sky. “It’s starting to snow again.”
Sure enough, huge, fat flakes of snow are floating down from the sky, silent and ghostly; one lands on Zara’s eyelash, a brilliant white against the dark, almost black lash that rims her eye.
“Are we gonna crack this or what?” Patrin grumbles. “I’m gonna freeze solid if I stand like this any longer.”
Taking the bottle from him, I break its seal and pop the cork cap, drinking deeply from it; the alcohol burns on its way down my throat, but it’s a pleasant burn, and a comforting warmth begins to spread out across my chest, flowing down into the pit of my stomach. Zara refuses the whiskey. When I offer it back to Patrin, he grabs the bottle by the neck, but I keep a hold of it for a moment.
“Where is she? Where’d she go, Pat?”
He knows who I’m talking about. Frowning, he points with his chin over my shoulder. “In the Airstream. Probably packing.”
Something hard, cold, and uncomfortable snags at the back of my mind.
“Shelta? What, she has toleave?” Zara asks. “Because she lost?”
Both Patrin and I shake our heads at the same time. I’m the one who says it, though—the truth that my cousin and I both know with a certainty. “It doesn’t matter. She could stay here if she wanted to. She’s a part of the family. An elder. She’d always be welcome here, and be highly respected with it. She won’t stay, though. She’s too proud. Too angry. Too humiliated. She’ll be gone before the morning breaks.”
“And the van right along with her,” Patrin adds sourly.
“Let her take it. We can get another one up here when it’s time for you all to leave. If it means we’ll be rid of her, then it’s a small price to pay.”
The three of us move closer to the fire, and this time, when Patrin casually offers the whiskey bottle to Zara, she accepts it. “Fuck it,” she says, her teeth chattering together. “It’s freezing. Why not. Mmm.” She holds up her index finger while she drinks. When she lowers the bottle, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, wincing, and says, “I have a question. What does that word mean? The one everyone was just chanting. Rombarrow?”
I roll my eyes, trying not to laugh. “Literally? It means ‘big man.’ It’s not important.”
“You lying shite,” Patrin growls under his breath. He throws his arm around my shoulders, groaning like he’s unwillingly giving in to something he’s been putting off for a very long time. “Rom Baroas good as means ‘king,’ Zara Llewelyn. We all did it. We all called him King. And now we’re stuck with the bastard until he keels over and dies.” He looks at me and scowls. “It is gonna be alongfucking lifetime, ain’t it, brother.”
Sixteen
ZARA
His hands areall over me before the door to thevardois even closed. I have no idea how we made it back to the wagon without ripping each other’s clothes off, but somehow we did. I scramble to hit a light, but Pasha growls into my ear. “Leave it. Leave it. Just take your clothes off, Firefly. I need your body on me right fucking now.”
My head is pickled in whiskey from last night, but I can still think well enough to obey his direction. Taking my clothes off, on the other hand…
“Here. Let me.” Pasha stills my hands, then grabs the hem of my shirt, ripping it over my head. He makes quick work of the hideous thermals I’m wearing, and then he disposes of my bra and panties as well. Next thing I know, I’m naked, shivering against the cold despite the alcohol buzzing in my veins, and Pasha is lifting me off the wooden floorboards and sitting me down on the counter. He quickly strips, kicking out of his clothes, and I watch the show, pretending to be unaffected by his insanely ripped body.
It’s not completely dark in thevardo. The light from the moon pours in through the little porthole windows, casting shadows across Pasha’s face and his chest, and I feel the need to pinch myself. He is so fucking beautiful. Sexy. Handsome. God, there isn’t an adequate word to describe how good looking this man is. Every time I catch sight of him, clothed or otherwise, I feel like I’ve won the goddamn lottery.
“What areyoulooking at?” he says teasingly.
“You. Your skin. Your body. Your tattoos. You told me you were going to explain what they all meant.”
“I know...”
“Youpromised.”
“Iknow. Which one do you like the best?” He laughs, ducking away from me as I pretend to throw a punch at his head. “Seriously. Where d’you want me to start?” he says. “I’ll explain every single one.”
“There. That one.” I poke my finger a little too roughly into his shoulder. Man, being drunk makes even the simplest things far more complicated than they should be. Pasha pulls a face, holding a hand over the point where I stabbed him, feigning injury. “Ahh, quit, you big baby,” I groan. “Do you think anyone would have voted for you tonight if they knew you were such a wuss?”
“That actually really hurt,” he argues.
“Just get on with it.”
“Okay. Fine.” He looks down at his own shoulder, checking which tattoo I’ve indicated to. “That’s a lightning bolt.Develeskri Jak.God’s Fire. A child of King Fire.”
