My shoulder touches my ear when I shrug. If the crime is heinous enough to warrant a death sentence, it’s still a punishment, isn’t it?
While adding a stack of pancakes to Justine’s plate, I say, “I don’t like being interrogated, so let’s get these questions over as soon as possible, then we can enjoy the rest of our day.” Playfulness highlights my words when Justine’s eyes stray to the pantry for the quickest second. She won’t have a chance in hell of escaping me when she packs away the condiments from breakfast.
I’ll tie her to the shelves if I have to.
After slathering her pancakes with syrup and butter, I raise my eyes to Justine’s. I don’t speak. I don’t need to. She picks up her fork and commences downing her breakfast without a word needing to seep from my lips. I don’t know if she has mindreading skills or the fact she’s only had half a PB&J sandwich since lunchtime yesterday.
She must be starving.
While answering the demands of her grumbling stomach, Justine asks, “Did you arrange for my brother’s transfer to Harborview?”
I drop my eyes to her plate of pancakes to ensure she’s eaten enough before returning them to her face. When my brow cocks, she rolls her eyes before stuffing a big chunk of pancake into her mouth. While she chews, I contemplate what to tell her. I could use the surveillance cameras as an excuse to lie, but with Vladimir believing Roman is working on securing an informant for the Popov entity, I don’t need to.
“No, I didn’t set up your brother’s transfer.”As Justine’s eyes dance between mine, her brows join together. “I asked Roman to do it. He did as instructed.”
The tension depriving the air of oxygen evaporates when Justine throws her balled-up napkin into my chest. The only friction I want between us is our groins when I’m balls deep inside of her, so I’m happy my ploy achieved the outcome I was seeking.
I also don’t deserve her admiration. I did help her brother for her, but I’m also hoping my assistance will benefit me in the future. Justine believes Maddox is innocent. I believe there’s more to his story than he’s sharing. If we’re both right, I need to watch Maddox as closely as I am the Petretti’s, because neutral men aren’t just allies of the devil; they can be his destroyer as well.
Approximately twenty minutes later, my attempt to keep our conversation on mutual territory flies out the window by Justine asking, “Why did you help Maddox, Nikolai? Your opinion on his case was highly notable last night, so why the sudden change of heart?”
I keep my reply blasé, like it’s no big deal I organized for her brother to be transferred from a maximum security prison to one that resembles a country club. “You asked for my help. I looked into it.”
Justine forces down a mouth of syrupy carbs before asking, “I asked for your help. When?”
Her nose crinkles when I push the surveillance tablet to her side of the table. After clearing the sticky residue from her fingers with a napkin, she watches the video I pre-installed for her. It’s from when she collapsed after Sergei’s attack. Around the time her memories faded.
When Dok enters the frame, I point him out before suggesting for Justine to fast forward an hour. My loaded fork hides my smile when she replies, “Why? So I can miss you spiking my drink?”
Although she’s arguing, she does as requested, stopping right around the time she woke up. “Is there any sound?”
I shovel a forkful of scrambled eggs into my mouth before removing the device from her hands. After forcing the video past my sickening act of pretending I have a heart in my chest, I hand the device back to Justine.
Her eyes taper when she notices the jump in timeline, but before she can voice her annoyance, her praise about my long lashes stop her. “You’re sooo pretty. I wish I had your lashes. They’re soo long they could reach the stars.” Her pupils dilate to the size of saucers when she watches how her launch onto her bed was quickly chased by an impromptu strip show.
Her eyes snap up to mine over the tablet when I growl under my breath, “I thought your bump and grind on the coffee table an hour earlier topped any burlesque show I’ve seen, but your little strip-tease in your room was ten times better.”
I grin when she kicks me in the shin. She’s mortified, but embarrassment isn’t the only gleam featured in her eyes when she continues watching the footage. Pain presents when she begs for me to stay, then gratitude takes over from me telling her to get her fine ass under the sheets.
When she whispers, “Yet, I wake up with you naked in my bed,” I retort, “The less clothing I had on, the more chance your scent would imbed into my skin.”
Acting ignorant to the extra thump in her clit from my comment, she drops her eyes to the footage playing on the tablet. She looks like she wants to cringe when she gets up in my business to prove how well we fit, but something keeps her embarrassment on the downlow. It could be confidence, or it could be the heat of my gaze as I stalk her responses from across the table.
After rolling her eyes at her theatrics on screen, Justine mumbles, “You can’t trust a drunk.”
I smile to hide my laugh. “No, you can’t. But you can trust the word of a drunk. People are most honest when they’re void of anxiety.”
Over the next ten minutes, I watch Justine with as much interest as she bestows on the tablet. Her cheeks are holding the same coloring they held last night, but her eyes aren’t as bloodshot.
I know the exact part of the video she’s at even with her thumb blocking the tablet’s speaker when she gasps a short time later. It’s when she pleaded for me to help Maddox. I had already put motions into play, but her tears didn’t give me the chance to explain that.
When the image blackens from me throwing a pair of gym pants over the camera, Justine hands the surveillance device back to me before pretending her career is more important than her personal life. “What was in the white pills? If it's anything illegal, I need to know. Regular drug testing is mandatory at my firm.”
Although pissed she still can’t put herself first, I ease the groove burrowed between her brows by answering, “You have nothing to worry about. Anti-anxiety pills are exempt from every test.”
“They were anti-anxiety pills?” I hear her question twice since her girlie squawk bounces off the paint faded walls of her kitchen.
“Yes,” I answer with a chuckle, fighting not to wiggle my finger in my ear. “You're quite entertaining when you let go of your worries.”
