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“I did,” I said honestly. I was worried telling him the truth, worried I would shatter the tenuous bond we’d reformed, but I had to be truthful. We were starting fresh, rebuilding from the ashes. There was no room for lies anymore. I waited, breath completely pulled, for him to give me any sign of forgiveness
“Please,” I whispered. “I just want the lies between us to die. I’ve told you everything, I will tell you everything, just like you’ve done with me.” Anteros’s features twisted, and again I wondered if there was something he might want to tell me, but just as quickly he went blank.
I stood up on my tiptoes, getting as close to him as I could, and said against his lips, “Let me fall with you, Lucifer.”
The reaction was immediate. Anteros pressed me against the car, so flat I could only press my head on the hood and tilt my chin. He held my breath captive, a wicked glint in his eye. There was too little space between us but too much all at once, and in that space he devoured me. My lips parted and his eyes darted to them before glancing back to lock with mine. There was a barely noticeable smile on his lips.
“Mio cuore…” He slid his open palm along my cheek, unfurling it around my neck. At first, it was just enough pressure to be firm, but then he tightened. I opened my mouth, sucking in as much air as I could. I welcomed the lack of oxygen, the pain, and the bruising on my neck, though. I wanted it all because I needed his fingerprints on my neck—an indelible sign of who I belonged to.
He pressed his lips to my ear, words licking the skin. “You’ve been a very bad girl. What are we going to do with you?”
What are we going to do with you?
We. He’d said we. It was such a simple thing, but it made all the difference. It brought a smile to my lips and goose bumps to my skin as we whipped along the highway going at least ninety miles an hour. I wasn’t focusing on the speed. I wasn’t even focusing on New York disappearing behind us into the black, black night. I was stuck on him.
He hadn’t said a word after that, just grabbed a blanket, wrapped it around my naked body, and shoved me into the car, not bothering to turn on the heat. The silence between us wasn’t angry, it was a promise. It was heavy and thick, like a decadent chocolate sauce. Under the blanket I clenched my thighs, knowing the wetness wasn’t from the river.
His tank still clung to his muscles and he was bleeding, red weeping down his slick skin. I was angry with myself for not noticing it before, but it didn’t seem to affect him. Nothing did. His red lips were taut in concentration and his skin rose with a chill he didn’t notice. Soaked hair fell over his chiseled face while his hands gripped the wheel. The water made his skin shine, reflecting whatever light could be found in the night—light from the dash, the occasional street lamp outside. The wet sheen on his skin made his cheekbones even harder and more determined. I rubbed my neck, mesmerized by him.
We drove for about two hours before he pulled the car to a stop. We’d driven north, to some kind of forested area. It was pitch black now and the moon backlit the many, many trees. There was no real road, just a dirt path muddied with snow. I made out the shadow of a house and beyond that a lake that was black in the night.
I didn’t bother asking where we were. Maybe I should have, but I was too wrapped up in us. I kept thinking that eventually I would figure us out, but as he slammed the door behind him, I knew that would never be true. We were like a black hole—the more you learned, the less you understood. There was just feeling and experiencing, and trying to understand or predict only led to more misunderstanding.
He stalked around the car to my side, eyes burrowing into me the entire time. His shoulders were tense, muscles riveted, throbbing against his clinging shirt. He was predator, I his prey. He tore open the door and pulled me out, lifting me into his arms as he’d done when saving me from the water. Briefly I thought of telling him I was fine, that I could walk despite the bullet wound and the cold, but the way he clung to me, the way the veins on his neck bulged, told me he didn’t care.
With near death behind me, I again remembered the loss of my letter. I couldn’t see it on Anteros, but I wondered if he’d been able to save it.
“Anteros—” I started, but he placed his lips on mine, immediately shutting me up. He was ravenous. Claiming. His tongue plundered my mouth, wet and sucking and forceful. When he was done, we were inside, and I couldn’t remember what I’d been thinking.
He set me down gently on a couch. I reached out for him; it was instinct, like breathing. I cupped his cheek, staring into his eyes. Anteros covered my hand and for a moment, it was perfect.
“You need stitches,” he said, voice low, and then he stood. He walked into another room. I sat up slightly to get a better look, noting the long corridor he’d gone down. I glanced at the bandage Anteros had put on my arm earlier. He was right—red was seeping through the little fibers.
We were in a cabin with cobblestone walls and a cobblestone fireplace, but the walls were all glass, floor-to-ceiling windows that exposed a pitch-black night. Plush furs were draped over minimalist furniture. It was the perfect mix of rustic cabin and modern decor.
It reminded me of the penthouse, of Anteros. I breathed a sigh of relief.
Home.
Anteros returned carrying a nondescript box and a glass of water.
He got to his knees and set the items on the table behind him—a glass coffee table so pristine I almost didn’t notice it. Then he threw a fresh blanket over me.
“You need to lie down,” he said and pressed his hand to my chest.
“You need a bandage first,” I said, fighting against his hand. “Stitches can wait.” Anteros hadn’t stopped bleeding since the river. Though the lower left half of his tank was nearly drenched red, he shot me a look like what I’d said was ridiculous. Still, he temporarily stopped trying to get me to lie down and reached for the box. I hoped it was for a bandage, but he turned back to me a second later with some pills.
“Take these.” He handed me white pills with the glass of water.
“You need a bandage, or antiseptic. Possibly both.”
“Frankie,” Anteros growled, warning on his tongue. I pursed my lips and moved my mouth to the side. I wanted to say more, but put my palm over his, accepting the pills anyway. His glare told me I didn’t really have a choice.
I sank farther back into the couch, the only sound between us the dull click of the cap being removed from the antiseptic. His hands were a mesmerizing bronze, just a shade darker than my own. They were like an ancient warrior’s shield, flawless and beautiful, yet hard and strong. I wondered how I’d never noticed it before. I waited for him to pour the liquid on the gauze, but instead he poured it on the wound in my arm. I hissed in pain but said nothing. He poured some on his hand and set the bottle down but didn’t cap it. With two fingers, he pressed next to where Pretty Boy had shot me.
“You’ll be fine,” he said, eyes on the wound. He reached behind him and grabbed something as my gaze drifted down to his still-wet thighs. Even though it wasn’t hard, his cock was thick, long, and perfectly outlined, resting on his thigh, begging to be stroked. He pulled out a needle and thread and I refocused on him, but he was already looking at me, smirk on his face.
“Get distracted by something?” he asked.
