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When I go inside, I find Diablo sitting at the kitchen table, that little doll in his hand again. He’s examining it far too closely, not even glancing at me when I come back in. My hackles rise, and I look around, looking for the chaos that I’m sure he’s caused. I don’t find it, not yet at least. I know my eyes will snag on it soon enough.
“What did you do?” I ask. He responds merely by flicking his gaze up to mine.
He looks so deceivingly innocent.
I step toward him, my fingers flexing, but he ignores me, his attention solely on the figurine before him.
My face heats, and I step away before I do something rash, like reach down and crush that thing in my hand. I need to get a grip, I’m better than this. Iknowbetter. My time as a Marine taught me discipline, and yet, this runt of a man makes me forget everything.
Fuck, I really want a smoke.
I rub at my chest as I move toward the bed, sitting down on the worn, creaky mattress. My eyes snag on something, and it’s then that I realize what he did. The handle of a kitchen knife is sticking out of the mattress, a large tear from top to bottom winks up at me. My blood boils, my fists curling and unfurling at the thought of him on this bed, his small muscles rippling as he sliced that knife right through the bedding.
Sleeping now is going to be even more hellish.
I pluck the knife from the bed and roll it between my palms. It’s a dull knife so I know he had to use force to get it to cut through this damn thing. He was fueled by anger, I’m sure. Making him bend to my will only make his pride shatter. He had to find a way to get it back.
Doesn’t he know that he can’t win this? That I will best him every time?
You could spank him and show him who’s boss.
It’s not the first time this thought has crossed my mind these past few weeks, and obviously it won’t be the last. I remember when I first met Diablo, the way he’d rolled his eyes at me and flicked his hand as if I was nothing more than a nuisance. I was there to save his life, to protect him, and he’d treated me like nothing more than an annoying bug.
“I would squash you, if I could.”
I should have laid down harder lines when we first met, but I was too soft on him, sure that he’d see his father had hired me to keep him safe. Apparently, he has no self-preservation. I can see that now. I can see it so fucking clearly.
He’s the brattiest brat who ever bratted.
“You like my decorating skills?” he asks snottily as I continue to roll that knife across my palms. I want to slide the tip between his lips and make him swallow around it. Make him bleed.
I push those thoughts down and walk toward the kitchen, the knife clutched in my hand. I’m not going to use it, not going to do what I feel like doing, but I am going to make him sweat. If that’s even something this little shit does. I’m not sure anything makes him nervous.
“You put a lot of effort into that and it was…lacking. Unimpressive.”
He stares up at me, his cheeks a splotchy red.
“Next time I’ll do it to your clothes.”
“Try it.”
It only seems to spur him on. He glances at the knife in my hand and slaps at it, almost slicing himself with the edge. Apparently he’s not worried about self-harm.
“Do it. Hurt me like you want to.”
“I’m not fucking touching you.”
His cheeks darken and he wets his lips, slapping at my hand again, bringing a rage to the surface that I rarely ever feel. He advances on me, his hand swatting at me, annoying and spiteful until I’m forced to grab on to his wrists with my free hand and hold the knife to his neck.
The tip pricks his skin and a bead of blood pops out. Just one, but I feel his shudder against me. It travels through his legs and up his abdomen and straight to his fingers. They curl and flex as I hold him tighter.
“Keep your hands off of me.”
“The same goes for you. You seem like you can’t stop though. You’re addicted to me.”
I am talking out of my ass, but I don’t think he wants me to stop, and even so, this is crossing the line. I let his hands go and move away from him, finding the block of knives and setting them so high up above the cabinets, he’d have to stand on the counter to reach them.
“Behave.”
