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“Oh, is he? It’s a good thing I have my uncle close by and he has only my best interests at heart,” she says, but her tone is ironic.
“I do have your best interests at heart,” I growl, squeezing her waist. What I’m doing is for both of us, and Zenya needs me to protect her from the wolves out there. She has no idea what men are really like.
She shrugs lightly. “Maybe you do. Butyourinterests are even dearer to your heart.”
Zenya detaches herself from me and walks around a vase that’s set atop a plinth in the middle of the room, admiring it from every angle. “This isn’t much of a party. No one’s even playing any party games.”
“What would you like to play?” I ask, following her, but she circles around the plinth, keeping herself out of my reach. The energy in the room suddenly crackles. She feels it, too, as her eyes start to sparkle.
Zenya taps her chin and pretends to think for a moment as we circle each other slowly. “Truth or dare.”
“All right. I’ll go first. How many men want to marry you?”
She laughs. “That’s not how the game works. One of us askstruthordareand the other gets to choose. And what happened to ladies first?”
I take a quick step toward her, but she flees playfully out of my reach. Suddenly my heart’s thundering in my chest. She shouldn’t flirt with me like she’s prey, or I’ll have no choice but to hunt her down. “Then ask me.”
“All right. Truth or dare?” Zenya trails her fingertips along the plinth as we circle it together.
I want to choosedare,but I can tell from her bright eyes that my girl is hungry for secrets. “Truth.”
Zenya glances toward the door to check that we really are alone and then whispers, “How long have you wanted me?”
I grin like the devil. Oh, that secret? She wants to know that secret?
I consider her with my head tilted to one side, wondering whether I should tell her everything because it’s complicated and messy, just like my feelings for her. I’ve got a dozen nieces and nephews, but I’ve never loved them like I love Zenya. She’s always been special. I love her more than my brother. I love her even more than myself.
I stopped admiring Zenya’s prettiness as a proud uncle and started regarding her as a force to be reckoned with after the home invasion. I’ve never been prouder of her than when my beautiful girl killed a man using the knife I’d given her. She knew I was on my way, and I could handle her attacker for her, but she didn’t want to wait. She wanted to kill him herself.
Then she came downstairs to stand among the corpses of the men I’d been torturing, her white PJ set and her silvery hair stiff with blood, and I realized she’d been watching me torture them.
Blood, pain, and murder, and she craved to watch.
I didn’t want to call her dandelion after that. I wanted to call her princess.
I wanted to call hermine.
My daughter? I wondered, puzzling for weeks and months over this strange feeling buzzing in my chest whenever I looked at her.
A few months before she turned sixteen, we were in the pool on a hot summer’s day, splashing each other while she squealed. She kept jumping on my back and looping both her arms around my neck while I dove deep, swimming powerfully through the water.
We’d surface and break apart, going back to splashing. Then she launched herself at my front instead of my back, wrapping her slender legs around my torso and climbing my body like a tree.
I was dazzled by the sun on the water. With her arms wrapped around my neck and her smiling lips just inches from mine, I felt a sudden and almost uncontrollable urge to push her against the tiles, cover her mouth with mine, and thrust my tongue deep into her mouth.
I stared down at her in shock.
Oh, shit.
That’s what this feeling has been all this time?
I want my niece?
I wrapped both arms tightly around her and squeezed. Zenya felt like heaven in her bikini with her breasts pushed against my chest and her cool, wet skin beneath my hands. I put my lips against her ear and whispered, “You’re my favorite kind of trouble, princess.”
Her eyes widened. Before she could answer, I dunked us both under the water and got out of the pool.
Not to go and see a priest or a therapist or to give myself a good talking to about the inappropriate thoughts I had of my niece. I drove home and jerked off, thinking about Zenya and her perfect mouth and adorable tits, telling myself I was a twisted bastard for thinking about her like that, but with the full knowledge that it was too fucking late and I wasn’t going to stop. By the time the sun set, I’d imagined a dozen different scenarios in which I thrust my cock deep inside her and made a bloody mess of her virginity and my balls were empty.
