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I see Remy’s jaw clench at the same time a smirk flickers in the corner of Wes’ lips.
“Quite frustrated, truly. I was having a lovely dream before I was pulled from sleep and stabbed.”
I don’t know what possesses me. I lean into him and press a kiss to his cheek. “Funny, I felt the same way when I was enjoying vacation with my best friend one day and then I woke up tied to a table.” It’s a whisper just for him, but either my words or my breath against the shell of his ear do him in. He groans.
Remy shifts on his feet. I can feel the tension rolling off of him like a dark cloud getting ready to swallow us all. If Dimitri hadn’t left, I am certain that Remy would have stalked away from Wes by now.
“Now I’m picturing you tied up again.” His voice is hoarse as he strains to contain himself. A big bad man like Wes surely isn’t used to being so helpless, and probably not used to being unable to do anything about his desire.
“Shut up,” Remy growls. “Or I’ll let my blade slip over your tongue ‘til it’s forked in two to look like the serpent you are.”
Wes’ grin deepens. “Careful, brother. You’ll make your whore come in the middle of your father’s wake if you keep talking like that.” There’s the barest pause before he continues. “Look at her. You’d never know just by looking at her, but violence turns her on.” His eyes shift to me, laying me bare. “I felt how wet you were against me baby. I bet you’re dripping for me right now… for us. Maybe Remy will share if you ask him nicely?”
I suck in a breath, but it makes me feel like I’m about to pass out.
Wes glances around. Somehow, we’ve been uninterrupted all this time, but I’m suddenly aware of how many people are around us, watching, maybe listening. He seems to be in agreement, because he steps forward. Remy catches him roughly against his side, though Wes wasn’t going far. His voice is low for me now, returning the favor from a moment before. “I bet your cunt was dripping for me before… when I had you on the other end of the blade, tied up on that table. You don’t have to be ashamed of it, Claire.”
“You’re right,” I whisper, letting my eyes flutter closed. Maybe if I don’t see the self-satisfied smirk on his lips, it will make my lie easier to swallow. I dust my fingers along his arm, hidden under the heavy suit jacket I assume came from Remy. “I am dripping right now.” My words come out unintentionally breathy—the result, I’m sure, of everything in me swelling with need and squeezing the air out of my lungs to accommodate space for everything else.
I brush my thumb over his wrist gently enough that when he hisses at the sting of my touch on his raw skin, he doesn’t automatically assume it’s intentional. I close my hand around his and squeeze with every bit of strength I have in me, until I feel warmth spread out beneath my fingertips.
Wes’ knees buckle and he’s just about to fall to them when a man swoops in and catches him under the arm. Remy makes a move for something inside his jacket, but the man turns and shows him something on his phone. Whatever it is, it’s good enough for Remy to pawn him off on the stranger.
Remy stalks away before I can even say anything in my own defense. Wes is moaning in pain, but the man who’s with him pats him on the back, telling him to ‘let it out’ and I realize that Wes just looks like he’s grieving the man he’s here to grieve.
Well played, stranger.
I glance down at the blood on my hands—it’s not a lot—and drain the rest of my champagne, letting the condensation on the glass lubricate the blood so that when I wipe my palms over the back of my dress, they come mostly clean.
I’ve got to find Remy and—
What? Make sure he doesn’t think I want Wes? Tell him his sister told us it’s fine to fuck around? Beg him to take me out of my head for a few minutes? A night? The duration of my time in Costa Rica?
I don’t honestly know what I’ll do when I find him, but I need to be near him the way I need to breathe.
I’m halfway across the room when a man steps in my path, barring my exit.
Chapter thirty
Claire
I manage a small smile. It’s a wake after all, and Rhea and Remy are both gone now, which makes me feel strangely obligated to at least pretend to be gracious to the people who came to pay their respects to the late Jonathan Boudreaux.
The man who stands before me is maybe twice my age—maybe not that much. He isn’t quite old enough that he looks like he would have much business with Johnathan, but also a bit too old to look like he’s one of Remy’s associates. His bright eyes assess me with interest that he doesn’t bother to hide, and while it’s awkward, it’s also not inappropriate. I stick my hand out for him to shake, unsure of what else could break the silence.
“I’m Claire.” I offer. “I’m a friend of the Boudreaux’s who’s been helping with everything.”
When he says nothing, only narrowing his eyes on me a little, I feed the silence. “Thank you for coming, Mister…”
“Massarini,” He’s slow to stretch out his hand, but when he takes mine, he wraps it firmly in his grip.
I’m not sure if it’s the possessiveness of his touch or the fact that I’m alone now without anyone in my corner, but I have a sudden realization that this man could very well have been the person who tried to purchase me at the auction. Cold sweat prickles along my arms and my stomach ties itself in knots. I wonder if Mr. Massarini knows who I am, or if maybe using my own name was stupid.
If the mafia is a real thing, my guess is Massarini is part of it. He lacks the all-dark eyes, hair, and beard/goatee combo I always pictured mafiosos to have, but the way he says his name is dark enough to make up for the rest. He is decidedly American, though the hint of an accent that I can’t quite place makes his words slow and decadent. From a cursory glance, he looks like an unassuming all-American man ready to unknot his tie and watch a game of football. His brown hair is short and tidy, and he has laugh lines around his mouth like he’s used to smiling, but he isn’t doing it now. His mouth is pressed together like he’s trying not to frown, and his eyes on me are disconcerting. “Victor Massarini.”
I manage a smile despite the fact that Mr. Massarini went from sounding like Italian mafia to Russian mob and free my hand from his grasp, resisting the urge to wipe it over my dress.
“You look familiar, Miss…”
