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“Lorena was a woman who cut the penis off her cheating, abusive husband years ago.” I nodded because I was dying to hear the rest of the story. She surveyed the restaurant to make sure no one was paying attention to us. Presumably satisfied no one cared about us more than their Big Macs and McChickens, she plunked her nugget into the sauce. “My graduating class was a ‘who’s who’ of up-and-comers. We saw a need. Found a way to weed out the weak, let fate decide between the rest of us.”
“You started the Scorpio Society?” No one had really given me the DL on the history. I liked it as a concept, loved it now that I knew a woman had a hand in bringing it into being.
“Me and some others. We’re the founding families. Our children are always members, though they must initiate like everyone else.” She cocked her head to the side.
And because I was dying to know but wanted to figure out how to ask without sounding insulting, I took a minute to wipe my hands, refolding my napkin next to my box of fries. “Is there really a poison potion?”
She inclined her head. “Oh, yes. Sadly, we’ve lost a few initiates.” Her smile made her appear not sad at all. “A few years ago, as a matter of fact. The procedure puts the decision process in the hands of the initiate and fate.”
Wow. “And the bodies?” I really wanted to know how the hell they had managed to keep the schoolandthe authorities in line if they were producing dead bodies at random.
Her smile was one of those meant to placate but gave nothing away. “Taken care of.” She leaned in. “Riley, we have means to handle the situations. That isn’t something you should bother yourself with.”
There were a lot of things I shouldn’t have bothered myself with, but that didn’t stop me. I wasn’t about to argue with her, though. “Okay.”
She nodded and reached across the table to pat my hand. “I knew I chose well. You’re everything I hoped you would be.” When she pulled back, she gazed at me again. “Death by venom is horrible to watch. I imagine it’s a more horrible way to die, but you also chose well.”
The glow of her approval sparked through me. “Well, I’m glad. I wasn’t looking forward to dying.”
“Roman never would’ve forgiven any of us if you’d chosen the wrong vial.” She popped another nugget into her mouth. “And when Roman is angry, hell hath no fury…”
I pictured Roman enraged, eyes flashing, veins bulging, anger bubbling out of him. The thought sent warm shivers racing across my skin. “I’ll bet.” My mind and body worked together. Heat and desire mingled in my belly as images of Roman played in my head—naked Roman, enraged Roman, Roman with his head buried between my legs.
Sweet fucking Jesus. There was something naughty about sitting in a McDonalds with his mother and picturing him naked. I wanted him, right now. Maybe after a nice long soapy shower, I would call him, invite him over… fuck him until neither of us could walk.
When I finally arrived back at the apartment, I walked past a guy on the steps. He was wearing one of those hernia belts that weightlifters and movers wore, and he was carrying boxes down the steps. I flattened my back against the wall so he could pass. I wondered who was moving out. It was probably some Freshman who’d flunked out, or someone who’d found a better place than this one.
I didn’t spend a lot of time caring because I had a hot date with the shower and my BOB, then I was going to call Roman. But as I came to the top of the steps, the door to my apartment opened and one of those moving guys came walking out with a box. “Hey!” He brushed past me without stopping or acknowledging me at all.
The apartment door was still open, and I sauntered in, glancing over my shoulder. “Emma?” I called out, single-minded and stalking toward her bedroom. “Em!”
“She’s not here.” That voice.
I twisted to look at him, arms stretched across the back of the sofa, one leg crossed over the other, the picture of relaxation while his movers stole my shit. But, fuck, if he didn’t look good.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” It sounded every bit as ugly as the words were meant to. “And how the fuck did you get in?”
And it didn’t affect him in the least. He stood in one graceful motion—he’d mastered complete control of his body—and smirked. “I walked through the door.”
“It was locked.” I’d made sure before I left with Margaret.
“That was a three-dollar door lock. A two-year-old with a bobby pin and ambition could’ve gotten in here.”
“So you broke in to steal”—I stopped a guy on his way out of my room with a box and flipped open the lid—“my Bon Jovi posters and some CDs?”
“I’ll get you an iPod.” His grin inspired anger to boil inside my veins.
“I don’t need afuckingiPod.” I shoved the mover back. “Take my stuff back to my room and get the hell out of here.”
Roman motioned with his head for the guy to continue. “Is that the last of it?”
The guy nodded. “Yes, sir.”
I shot him a glare and tried to block the mover’s exit. The guy shifted left and right and eventually made it around me. With his smug grin plastered across his face, Roman walked to where I stood and clasped his hands at the small of my back, then pulled me closer, but my arms were crossed between us, and I wasn’t budging.
“No.” Money or not, this was my place and my stuff. “Give me my shit back and get out.”
“No.” He lowered his head and nuzzled the side of my throat, his stubble creating the most delicious friction, and I tilted my head.
