32. Chapter 32

32

Wren

T he scalding water cascades over my skin, turning it an angry shade of red. Steam billows around me, thick enough to choke on. I close my eyes, letting the heat seep into my muscles, easing the delicious ache between my thighs.

Fuck. The sex… is addictive.

This wasn't the plan.

A quick fuck to scratch an itch, nothing more.

Okay, a quick fucking amazing fuck. But still .

My mind races as I lather up. How the hell did I end up here? One minute, I'm minding my own business; the next, I'm knee-deep in D's mafia bullshit.

I rinse off, watching the suds swirl down the drain. If only I could wash away this mess as easily.

My hand trails down my body, remembering D's touch. My nipples harden. Fuck . Even thinking about him gets me going.

No. Stop it. This ends now.

I scrub my face hard, smearing off the last of my makeup. The real me stares back from the steamy mirror. Raw. Exposed.

I've spent years keeping everyone at arm's length. It's safer that way. No attachments, no disappointments. But D… he's like a fucking wrecking ball, smashing through my defenses.

The water runs cold. I shut it off, the sudden silence deafening. For a moment, I just stand there, dripping, shivering.

I wrap myself in a towel.

It's soft.

Expensive.

Another reminder that I don't belong here.

I vaguely dry myself, water dripping from my hair onto the tiles. Fuck it. Not my problem.

I snatch D's shirt from the hook. It's soft. Smells like him. I pull it over my head, drowning in the fabric.

Then it hits me. A smell. Not D's cologne. Food?

What the fuck?

I creep downstairs, bare feet silent on the hardwood. The smell gets stronger. Savory. Rich. My stomach growls, the traitor.

I freeze and nearly choke on my own spit.

There's D, half-naked, in the kitchen. The sun streams through the kitchen window, bathing him in golden light. It's the first time I've seen him this exposed in daylight, with just a pair of boxers hugging his ass.

Jesus fucking Christ.

He's facing away from me, giving me a full view of his back. It's a goddamn work of art. Muscles ripple under tanned skin as he moves, a canvas of tattoos and scars telling stories I'm not sure I want to know.

My eyes trace the lines of a massive dragon curling around his shoulder blade. It's breathtaking. Terrifying. Just like him.

I'm glued to the spot. Watching… the hottest man I've ever seen striding across the kitchen.

My jaw drops. Holy fuck.

As he turns to grab some chopped-up mushrooms from the counter, I catch sight of a long gash across his ribs, a puckered burn on his left shoulder. There's history there, written in scar tissue and pain. I recognize that kind of pain. I've got my own scars hidden beneath the surface.

He looks up, sensing my presence. For a split second, his face softens, something raw and unguarded flashing in his eyes. It's gone so fast that I almost think I imagined it.

His icy blue eyes turn into a storm of lust, the pupils darkening to black, his gaze trailing over my damp hair and bare legs. "I was beginning to think you'd drowned in there."

I steel myself, my jaw clenching as I ignore the desire burning in his eyes. With an eyebrow arch, I lean against the banister. "Worried about me, big guy? That's cute."

A smirk tugs at his lips. "Just my water bill, krasotka. "

His voice is gravel and whiskey. It does things to me. Things I don't want to admit.

Ignore it, I think. Ignore the fact that your greedy little cunt is aching to taste him again. But my heart is hammering against my rib cage.

Two more steps. I can do two more steps. I've faced down death, for fuck's sake. I can handle this.

Slowly, deliberately, I put one foot in front of the other. My gaze stays fixed on the floor, refusing to let his eyes pin me down like prey.

Finally, I reach the bottom of the stairs. And shit, I'm staring at his chest like a damn deer in the headlights.

Fuck that.

I tear my gaze away, trying to look casual. But fuck, his eyes are piercing into me like he knows exactly what's going through my mind. I can't let him win.

"Put it on my tab," I shoot back, rolling my eyes and leveling my gaze on his face. "Right next to ‘life-threatening situations' and ‘questionable life choices.'"

He laughs, deep and rich. The sound does things to me I'd rather not admit. Crow's feet crinkle at the corners of his eyes, softening that hard-as-nails exterior for just a moment. Fuck, he's gorgeous when he laughs.

It hits me then how much older he is. Ten years at least, maybe more. Not that I give a shit about age, but it's there in the lines on his face, the weight of experience in his eyes. He's seen some serious shit, that's for damn sure.

But those eyes, they're looking at me like I'm some kind of puzzle he can't quite figure out. Like he's trying to see past all my bullshit. It's unnerving as hell.

"What's the matter, old man?" I taunt, cocking an eyebrow. "Trying to remember what it was like to be young and reckless?"

His smirk deepens, a dangerous glint in his eye. "Trust me, printsessa , I've got plenty of reckless left in me. Want me to prove it?"

Heat floods my body at his words. Fucking traitor.

"You look different without your war paint," he murmurs, his hand coming up to tuck a damp strand of hair behind my ear. I resist the urge to lean into his touch.

"Yeah, well, not all of us wake up looking like Greek gods, you smug bastard."

The corner of his mouth lifts in amusement. "So, you're calling me a Greek god now? Am I going to have to start wearing a toga to bed?"

I scoff, "Don't flatter yourself. You're more like a dumbass Spartan with a chip on his shoulder and a boner for brutality."

He grins, showing off a hint of fang. "Ooh, feisty. Someone's jealous of my good looks, aren't they?"

"Keep dreaming, asshole," I retort, crossing my arms over my chest.

"Hungry?" he asks, gesturing to the stove.

I clear my throat, trying to play it cool. He ain't getting any hint that I'm hungrier to taste his throbbing cock.

I glance past him. A pot's simmering, steam rising. My stomach growls again, louder this time.

D's smirk widens. "I'll take that as a yes."

He turns back to the stove, giving me another eyeful of that glorious back. I want to trace every line, every scar with my tongue.

Christ, my pussy's practically dripping at the thought of having his cock between my lips.

Fuck. Get it together, Wren.

"What's that smell?" I mutter, even as my feet stay rooted to the spot.

"Relax, printsessa ," he says, turning back to the stove. "I'm just reheating. Food got cold while you were drowning yourself in the shower."

My stomach growls for the thousandth time.

D's shoulders shake with silent laughter.

"Fuck off," I mutter, but walk closer to the stove.

He turns, a wooden spoon in hand. "Come here," he says, holding it out. "Taste."

I hesitate. This feels… domestic. Dangerous in a whole new way.

D rolls his eyes. "It's not poisoned, I promise. Though with that attitude, I'm tempted."

Against my better judgment, I move closer. The heat of his body wraps around me like a blanket. I open my mouth, letting him feed me a spoonful of… whatever it is.

Flavor explodes on my tongue. Rich, savory, with a kick of spice that makes my eyes water. "Holy shit," I breathe.

D's grin is triumphant. "Good, right? Old family recipe."

The words slip out before I can stop them. "Didn't know the mafia qualified as family."

His face shutters, the grin vanishing. I've hit a nerve. Fuck .

"Sorry," I mutter, surprising myself. I don't apologize. Ever. But the look in his eyes…

D shakes his head, turning back to the stove. "Don't be. You're not wrong."

The silence stretches, heavy with unspoken words. I should leave. This is getting too real, too fast. But my feet stay rooted to the spot.

"There was an old man at the camp," D says suddenly, his voice low. "Worked in the kitchen. He taught me, before… everything. Used to be a chef back in the old country."

I blink, thrown by this unexpected glimpse into his past. "Must've been one hell of a cook."

D's laugh is short, bitter. "He was. Only decent human in that hellhole. Shame I couldn't inherit his talent for staying out of trouble."

I snort. "Yeah, well, join the club."

He turns, his eyes meeting mine. There's something there. Recognition. Shared fucked-upness. It should scare the shit out of me. Send me running.

It doesn't.

Fuck it.

I step closer. Grab his stupid thick neck. Pull him down.

Kiss him. Hard.

His lips are rough. Taste like danger. Like home.

I'm so screwed.