Page 15 of Precious Hazard (Perfectly Imperfect #11)

One week later

“Sometime this century, Tara, if you’d be so kind.”

I glance up, meeting Keva’s scowl. She’s leaning on the edge of the stove with her arms crossed over her chest. The steam rising from the pot of stew behind her makes it seem like she’s fuming.

“What?”

“Potatoes.” She points a long wooden spoon toward the bowl before me. The one I used to prop up my book so I could read. I guess I got a little sucked in by the story.

“Oh. Sorry.” Putting the paperback away, I resume peeling the spuds.

If it was anyone but Keva interrupting my reading I would have told them to eff off. But I can’t do that to Keva. She’s practically a mother to me.

After our parents and sister died, Keva brought Drago and me to the US, fleeing Serbia to protect our lives.

We too might have ended up dead if she hadn’t smuggled us out.

Working multiple jobs, she put a roof over our heads and made sure we had food on our table.

Until Drago’s business kicked off and his successes allowed him to purchase this house, only then did Keva finally quit her outside jobs.

But instead of putting her feet up and enjoying a well-earned rest, she took over managing the household filled with almost half of Drago’s people.

Every day, she feeds over fifty mouths, tends to everyone’s wounds, and on top of that, launders the money for Drago’s operations.

She’s been doing that for years, all while nurturing a pseudo-adopted daughter who’s given her more than a few gray hairs along the way.

I smile. It’s the times when Keva calls me out on my shit that I truly appreciate how incredible she is. There’s no way I could love her more than I already do.

“Are you ever going to take that vacation Drago has been bugging you about?” I ask, grabbing another potato.

My brother has been trying to send Keva on an all-expenses-paid trip.

Every few months, he buys a first-class plane ticket and books the most luxurious accommodations for her, only for Keva to cancel the whole kit and caboodle.

“Ha! Do you know where he tried to send me last month? The Maldives!” She laughs while stirring the stew. “What the hell would I do in the Maldives? Those fancy overwater resorts are not for me. And anyway, you lot would starve to death or kill each other without me around.”

“I’m sure the girls could manage. And I would help.”

Keva glances at me over her shoulder. “Tara, you don’t even know how to make pasulj .”

“Of course I do!”

“Sure. But it tastes like dishwater, dear.”

“That’s not my fault! Every time I asked you to teach me, you just shooed me out of the way.”

“Because your nose was always in one of your romance books! You didn’t listen to a word of my instructions, too busy ogling those half-naked men on the covers. Besides, it’s hard to cook with one of those things glued to your hands. You almost never actually put down your book.”

“That’s not true.”

Her eyebrows jump toward her hairline, and her gaze moves pointedly to the paperback on the counter. I didn’t even realize I had reopened it. It’s just… Sienna got me this one yesterday. She said it’s the best enemies-to-lovers novel she’s ever read. And I’m at the climax of the story!

“You need to get your head out of those and into the real world, girl. That kind of obsession is not healthy.”

“I know.” I shrug. “But it’s so easy to lose myself in the fantasy where characters always, somehow, manage to make the right choices.

Especially the cute but shy heroine. She doesn’t let anything drag her down, just calmly deals with her shit while holding her head high.

And everyone can’t help but love her because she’s so damn perfect.

And then, there’s her superhot, brooding love interest. He’s so rough around the edges and totally unyielding.

But that’s just a front. Secretly, he’s crazy about the sweet, perfect heroine, and can’t wait to steal the stars from the sky so he can lay them at her feet. I mean, what’s not to love?”

“There are plenty of good, real men around here, Tara.”

“Yeah, sure. And all of them are just waiting for me.”

“You could find out if you’d break up with the Italian grump.”

I snort. Keva is not a part of Satan’s fan base.

“It’s amazing that you’re not charmed by him like all the other women in the house seem to be. They constantly gush about what a gentleman he is for sending me flowers every day.”

“Ha! He sent you white lilies last night. Those are funeral flowers. And the day before yesterday… yellow hyacinths. Those symbolize jealousy. A gentleman should know these things. And just don’t get me started on the hundred roses! Couldn’t have added one more, could he? Shame on him!”

“Well, he’ll be here shortly to pick me up, so I’ll encourage him to do some thorough research on the meaning of flowers in Balkan cultures so he’s more informed in the future,” I laugh.

This morning, I woke up to a text from an unknown number.

All it said was: 1 p.m. Be ready. It wasn’t signed.

The jerk probably thinks everyone on the planet should be able to recognize his royal decree; no need for him to actually identify himself.

He didn’t even bother asking if, perhaps, I had other plans today.

Oh no, His Assholeness just assumed I’m sitting around waiting for his summons so I can jump and do his bidding.

“What the hell are you doing with that man, anyway?” Keva continues, stirring the stew with enough force to whip it into a pudding. “Are you actually dating him or is this a new way you’re trying to piss off Drago? Because it’s working.”

I bite my lower lip. I’m so damn tempted to confess.

To tell Keva that Arturo DeVille is threatening to pin a murder on me—a murder he committed!

—unless I go along with this sham of a relationship and become his wife.

I know if I told her the truth, Keva would hug me, pet my head, and let me cry on her shoulder.

But then, she’d march straight to Drago and tell him everything!

Ugh! That would be a disaster. I can easily picture how it would unfold from there. My brother would be livid and would try to kill DeVille. But if he somehow managed to keep his wits about him, remembering that Satan happens to be Sienna’s brother, Drago would then set his sights on Ajello.

And then he would end up dead!

No. I can’t risk it. I won’t allow Drago to get hurt again because of me. He carries enough scars on his body as a daily reminder that he nearly died in the fire he saved me from.

Never again.

“Drago doesn’t get to tell me who I should date.” I lift my chin, hoping to convince her. “And I don’t need him to sign off on my boyfriend. It’s my life.”

“He’s just worried about you.”

Yup. Everyone is always worried about me. It’s as if I’m incapable of living independently, or something. Someone constantly needs to hold my hand so I don’t screw up while putting on my “big girl pants.”

Jesus fuck. Drago’s “the world is a dangerous place and I have many enemies” rant is still ringing in my head from when he forced me to move back into the mansion.

Never mind that I can shoot a fucking gun better than some of his men.

In truth, it’s one of the very few things I’m actually good at.

But my brother still thinks I can’t take care of myself.

“Well, he shouldn’t be worried. I’m fine. In fact, I’m feeling pretty damn amazing.” I drop the last of the peeled potatoes into the bowl and storm out of the kitchen.

Somebody calls after me as I run across the entry hall, but I ignore them.

I need some fresh air before I lose my goddamned mind.

Flinging the front door open, I barrel outside, only to immediately smash face-first into a cluster of soft, red petals.

The honeyed, floral scent of roses invades my senses.

“What the—” I push off with my hands, trying to repel the flowery onslaught on my nose, sneezing in the process.

“I should have expected this,” an irritatingly sexy voice comments from directly above my head. “You can’t even accept flowers normally.”

Shoving the blasted bouquet away, I glare at the uninvited guest. The midday sun brings out a bluish tinge in his slightly wavy black hair.

He wears it softly swept away from his face, giving it a somewhat mussed look.

The gray three-piece suit fits him like a glove, same as every other outfit I’ve seen him in.

It really is a shame that a drop-dead gorgeous guy like him is such an asshole. So much wasted potential.

“It’s not even noon,” I grumble. “What are you doing here?”

“Courting you. Isn’t that obvious?”

“ Courting ? Are you a Regency-era escapee or something?”

Arturo’s eyes darken. “Trust me, I’m not enjoying this any more than you. I’m putting in an effort for the sake of appearances. And so should you. Take the roses.”

He tries to hand me the flowers, but I shove them back. “Can’t. I’m out of burial spots. You keep them.”

“Tara?” My brother’s voice booms behind me. “What’s going on?”

Damn it.

Swapping the scowl on my face for a beaming smile, I swipe the bouquet out of DeVille’s hands and crush it to my chest like it means the world to me.

“Look at these lovely roses!” My voice might as well be coated in sugar crystals. Knowing that Drago won’t likely hear me clearly, I spin around so he can read my lips. “Isn’t my man simply wonderful for bringing me such beautiful flowers?”

“Mm-hmm.” Based on the look of disgust on my brother’s face as he glances at the roses, one would think they were entrails instead. But then, his attention shifts to his brother-in-law, and Drago’s glare turns chilled and stony. “And why is the pretty boy buying you flowers again?”

“It may come as a surprise to you,” Satan replies in a condescending tone, “but a man with manners does that when he picks up his girlfriend for their date.”

“ Girlfriend? ” Drago narrows his eyes.