Page 49 of The Butcher's Wife

“You want me to?” I nip at his neck.

He flinches, and we both laugh.

He doesn’t lower his head again until I’ve finished kissing and sucking along his neck, lavishing extra attention to my bite. I don’t feel bad for it, though I should. I like knowing he’s strong enough to take anything I could do to him, and I like knowing I’m there, right under his shirt collar, invisible to the world but stillreal, a secret we share.

When I pull back, I find what I’m searching for—hungry curiosity, like he’s waiting to see what I’ll do next. Excitement thrums through me.

A car honks, breaking the spell, and Dom jerks me off of him, whipping us around and pinning me to the brick wall behind him so he’s shielding me from the road with his body.

The car drives off into the night, leaving us heaving against each other. Dom’s exhale rustles the top of my hair while I bury my face into his chest and smile.

“We can’t stay here,” he says.

He’s right, of course, although I almost want to make him promise that he’ll be the same when we return to the penthouse. I don’t need a long drive to sober his thoughts and return his conscience. I need him just like this—pliable and willing to let us have what we both want.

I nod against his chest, and we walk back to the car.

In the passenger seat, my body’s loose and relaxed, butmy mind’s on a knife’s edge. He’s given me a taste of him, and I’ve discovered I’m starving.

He keeps looking over at me as he drives, stealing long glances. I want to make him wait. I want to stretch his resistance into a thin strand, and then I want to make it snap.

When he misses the turn back to our penthouse, I speak up. “Heading to the hospital?”

“No. We’re going to Turi’s.”

12

DOM

“He’s going to kill me.”

“Annetta.” I stop. Her name coats my tongue in sweetness.

She’s scared and pissed, but the sound of her name affects her, too, judging by the little inhale she makes.

“Annetta,” I say again. I’m fucked and I know it, but I can’t bring myself to regret kissing her in that cemetery. “I trust Turi with my life. He’s not gonna hurt you. He wanted us to get married. He’ll help us.”

He won’t be happy about it, but he’ll do it regardless, which pretty much sums up our working relationship.

“That’s because he thinks I’m Ser—that I’m my sister. You said you were going to protect me, but he’s going to hurt me. He could hurt Dad.”

“Trust me. You’ll see.”

She sits back and crosses her arms, glaring out her window. I drive on, secure in the knowledge that I’m right.

Annetta.

Most nights I sleep like a fucking baby. I’m going to hell anyway, so why should I keep myself up atnight about the decisions I’ve made? Guilt’s not a word in my vocabulary.

Butsomethinglike it poisons my delight at the knowledge that Annetta’s in the car with me and not her sister, and I know how fucked up that is. I’m not happy her sister’s dead. Serafina was a nice girl. She covered her mouth when she laughed, had delicate, ladylike hobbies everyone approved of, and she went to church every Sunday. The world’s worse off without her in it.

ButAnnetta.

Almost three years ago, I caught Annetta sneaking out on her eighteenth birthday to Rizo’s Bar. They didn’t card then—still don’t. I was relaxing after a long day and trying to get into the pants of some woman I’d met there, and then Annetta Barbara had waltzed inside without a single escort.

I had excused myself from the woman and slipped into a dark corner to watch.

For a long time, Annetta just stood there with her arms crossed over her chest as she took in what I’d assumed to be her first bar. She wore makeup I’d never seen her in, a deep red lipstick and dark eyeshadow that didn’t suit her at all—something she probably thought made her look older—and a black blouse and pencil skirt she must’ve found in the very back of her closet.