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“Or else what?” He lowered his voice. “Where the hell is my mother, Corbin?”
“Safe. For now.”
“For now? You’d kill the wife of your brother?”
“Without hesitation,” he sneered. “She’s weak. I’d be putting her out of her misery.”
His mother was ill, not weak, but arguing with Corbin would be a fruitless endeavor. He needed to step back, assess this situation, and figure out his next move. He stood, never having touched his food, noting that all of his uncle’s enforcers watched him closely. He was pretty sure a couple of them were cousins, but his memories of them were as children.
It didn’t matter. He’d long ago given up on his stupid dreams of rejoining his family. Long ago realized what his mother had done had left him better off. When he’d been young, he’d repaid her by turning into the very thing she’d tried so hard to avoid. And now he worked to make up for those years by being the best possible person he could.
“You going to get my painting, Alesandro?”
He scowled down at the old man. “We’ll see, Corbin,” he said, knowing his use of his uncle’s first name was a huge insult to him. “In the meantime, if you hurt my mother, you’ll see just how much of a Karras I am.”Chapter ElevenMarc stood in his kitchen, caught up in watching Royce as he stared out of one of the windows in his family room. His sleek, powerful body was so taut, the arms he’d clasped behind his back had muscles bulging hard. They looked ready to burst through skin. The beautiful tattoos circling one of those arms pulled Marc in, and he wanted to trace them again as he had the one night Royce had allowed himself into Marc’s bed. One. That was it. Marc wanted him back there so badly, his entire body ached from carrying around the heavy need. And what he’d told Dominic earlier was the truth. He wanted more than that from Royce.
But this moment, he desperately wanted to know what had happened today. What had caused Royce to be pulled so tight, Marc knew he’d be shaking if he let up just a little.
Sighing, Marc pulled out a saucepan and a skillet. He had the perfect remedy and the whole time, he prepared it, Royce didn’t once turn around. When the food was steaming, he put together a tray and carried it into the living room. “Here,” he told Royce. “Come eat.”
Royce turned away from the window and came to stand beside Marc. “What’s this?”
Marc frowned down at the plate and bowl. “I know I’m not much of a cook, but I was sure this looked like tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches.” He squinted and tilted his head. “What does it look like to you?”
Royce’s frown faded as a hint of a smile pulled up one side of his lips. He glanced down at the food. “I meant why did you bring me this?”
“Do you hate tomato soup and grilled cheese?” Marc reached for the food.
“No!” Royce put his hand over it to stop him. He cleared his throat. “I mean, no, I don’t hate it. I love them both actually. Thank you.”
Marc slid his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “My mom used to make this for me when I felt bad, so I thought it might cheer you up.”
Royce stepped closer. “Why are you making me food?”
“Because you’ve been glowering and stomping around. You’re obviously pissed, so I thought comfort food might help.” He glanced at the window that had held Royce’s attention for nearly an hour. “You’ve been staring into the dark a long time. Are you going to talk to me about what happened today? We’ve been home hours, and you’re still seething.” He paused and lifted an eyebrow. “If food isn’t what you need, I have a better suggestion for working off some of that steam.”
Royce’s eyes narrowed, and Marc had to work hard not to show the shiver that raced through his body. This man, with his scruffy beard, tattoos, and fierce scowls made him burn with a need he’d never felt before. And he knew what that scarred, tough body looked like naked. Wiry and so damn strong. Scars that said so very much about the kind of past he’d had. Marc wanted to see it naked again. Every day, if possible. He wanted to map out every curve of ropy muscle, every indentation and bend. Wanted to touch and taste firm flesh and run his hands over his hairy legs and arms. He wondered if Royce’s feet were as intriguing as the rest of his sinewy body. He knew Royce didn’t see the same thing Marc did when he looked in the mirror, and he had this crazy urge to show him how gorgeous he was.
