Page 9 of Confession (Constantine Brothers #2)

EIGHT

Vitali

Quinn was right about one thing. I was drunker than I thought last night.

It’s almost noon before I emerge from my room, and I still feel like shit.

There are a lot of things that I know I need to sort through, but my brain isn’t really online yet.

With any luck, the kitchen will be empty. I need coffee and time to think.

I don’t get that time because not only is the kitchen not empty, everyone is there. Jesus Christ, why is everyone in the kitchen?

Roman and Sasha are eating sandwiches at the table, Lucas is working on something at the island that I really don’t want to look at this early and that smells of garlic, and Quinn is sitting on the floor in front of an open cabinet with his phone. He’s working on our weekly food order.

I ignore them all and head straight to the coffeepot. I stare at it, confused. It’s just finishing brewing. My favorite mug, the green and blue swirly one with the nice bulge at the bottom, is sitting beside it.

I must stare at it for a really long time because Quinn finally explains, “I heard the shower.”

I look down to where he’s sitting on the tiled floor in his most ragged jeans and an army green t-shirt. I like that color on him. And those jeans.

How did I not notice my attraction to him before? Because looking at him now? Accepting the attraction for what it is? I realize that it’s always been there—because it doesn’t feel new. It only feels like new clarity.

What the hell is wrong with me that I didn’t understand it before?

He clears his throat and returns his attention to the cupboard.

His phone is on his knee with the app open.

He leans forward and pushes some things aside in the cupboard.

His back is curved, the t-shirt pulling tight over muscle, showing the furrow of his spine.

He sits up and taps something on his phone.

His eyes flick to me because I’m still staring at him.

Why does he hate when I touch him?

Why did he cut me off last night?

My memory is a little fuzzy, but I certainly recall that. I’m annoyed. Sour. But he made me coffee because he heard the shower. What am I supposed to think?

I become suddenly aware that everyone is watching me.

I look over my shoulder, and the frozen scene of Lucas at the island with his knife hovering over the cutting board and Sasha and Roman holding their sandwiches, unpauses abruptly.

Lucas jumps back into his work and Sasha takes a huge bite.

Her chair screeches as she scoots up to the table.

Roman is the only one who keeps his eyes on me.

His expression is fairly blank, but his dark eyes are attentive.

Unlike the others, it doesn’t occur to him to pretend that he didn’t notice …

whatever it was between me and Quinn. I look away because he’s not going to.

There’s no point in being in a staring contest with Roman.

I pour myself some coffee. I put my back to the counter and sip it, watching Quinn from the corner of my eye.

“Um, Quinn?” Lucas says. “When you have a minute, can you help me?”

Quinn looks over his shoulder. “Sure, Lucas, just a second.”

Quinn scrolls and clicks a few things on his phone, then he closes the cupboard and gets up. As he walks over to the island, he looks toward Roman at the table. Roman gives the slightest nod.

By any normal measure, Roman’s extreme possessiveness of Lucas isn’t very healthy for either of them, but it’s relaxed a little bit, at least in regard to Quinn. Roman seems to trust him with Lucas in a way he doesn’t trust other people, not even me.

Roman not trusting me is annoying. But Roman trusting Quinn? Yeah. I get that. I would too. And it’s weird because Quinn is actually very violent and, though I wouldn’t call him dominant, he’s definitely not submissive either. Not easily anyway.

“This doesn’t look like the picture,” Lucas says, gesturing at the cut of meat waiting in the dish. “How am I supposed to make it look like this?”

Quinn takes Lucas’s phone from him and frowns.

His thumb flicks up the screen. His other hand is braced against the edge of the counter and he’s leaning into it, which bends him forward slightly.

His worn, ripped-at-the-knee jeans hug his ass perfectly.

Why is he so damn attractive? It’s not just his ass. His arms too. His whole body. His face.

But, god, that ass. I’ve never done anal before, but I can see it, how perfectly I would fit against him. Would he do that, bottom for me? Because, shockingly, I can imagine it. Fucking him.

But he broke the kiss last night. He said it wasn’t a good idea.

Why?

He and Lucas discuss how to butterfly the meat. I gather that Lucas is working on a stuffed leg of lamb. It looks very complicated.

“Do we have string?” Lucas asks. “This needs string. I should have read the whole recipe before I started it.”

“Hold on.” Quinn walks across the kitchen and opens a drawer, pulling out a ball of string.

Lucas smiles. “I should’ve known you would have everything.”

Quinn’s lips tug. He’s embarrassed. Fuck, he’s cute. What in the goddamn hell is wrong with me that I didn’t see it? Two fucking years he’s lived here. Am I stupid?

“So I just … butterfly this?” Lucas asks. “Then stuff the stuff in it and roll it? And tie it up?”

“Just let me wash my hands, then I’ll help you,” Quinn promises.

“Thank god.”

Quinn shakes his head, amused, and walks over to the sink. It brings him close to me. When he starts washing his hands, I move toward him. He doesn’t tense like he has in the past, but his eyes are wary when they flick to me.

You know what? He’s right to be wary. He’s in my sights now, and there’s no escaping.

And that’s why I need him to understand what he seemed to be struggling with last night when he so idiotically thought I was going to fire him.

I lean into him until my shoulder is pressing against his.

I whisper in his ear, “You do not get to leave.” I barely stop myself from adding, Ever . “Do you understand?”

He swallows hard. He doesn’t answer me.

“I need you to nod, at the very least.”

Even that’s hard for him. His nod is a jerk of his chin, and I think he’s mostly doing it to make me leave him alone.

I don’t want to leave him alone, and if there weren’t three other people in the kitchen right now, I would put myself behind him. I would subdue him, make him submit to me. I would make him accept what I’ve said. I would make him say yes like he did last night.

Because the truth, barely perceptible, easily mistakable, reveals itself in his wariness.

I was irritated before, focusing on his resistance.

But as I crowd him and feel him shiver, as I think about what he’d do if I seized control of him right now, as I think about how he responded when I grabbed his hair last night and when I choked him in that alley, I know the truth. I know what he’s been hiding.

And I’m going to make him confess it.