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Will get you fucked.
I think we can all agree that Van is romantic as fuck, but then again, my views on romance are a little tarnished and a whole lot twisted.
“I’m sorry,” I clip like the delightful smell of bergamot and ash wafting off him isn’t sending a rush of wetness to my center. “Did you think I was trying to turn you on?”
Hopefully, my voice sounds more annoyed than weak when Van surprises me with a grin.
“Not in the slightest,” he agrees. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you did.”
Maybe it’s the adrenaline from earlier, but I can’t sift through the fog in my brain to understand the look in Van’s eyes.
“Well, rest assured, dear husband, the only thing I want to make hard for you is your life—your dick can go fuck itself.”
I’m choosing to ignore this morning’s episode. That was an attempt to play nice, but Van shot that bonding experience to hell when he let his killer brothers taunt me.
“My dick,” Van repeats, his hands going to my hips and resting there like a firm security blanket, “won’t fuck anything but that pretty mouth of yours.” Leaning in, his breath ghosts over the top of my ear. “I suggest you learn to control it before I do.”
Holy freaking, wow.
I’m a sick woman.
This man with a power trip is threatening me, and all I say is, “I wouldn’t be so confident. I’m a slow learner.”
I might as well have given him a trophy and declared him the winner. I would have happily given him my virginity that summer we met, but he refused and broke my heart. What bad boy does that? Not a good one.
Van Gogh has always been more than he seems, but not even our friendship made him open up. He’s always been a walking contradiction, full of hate and kindness. And my dumbass marries him, knowing nothing about who he really is.
“You know, Mrs. Cain, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you issued me another challenge.”
I smack one of his hands on my hips, but it doesn’t move.
“Think what you want, Mr. Cain, but you do nothing for me sexually that I haven’t already had.” I shrug just to be an ass. “And better. I can’t imagine you learned much while in prison.”
It was a low blow. I know that, but I said it anyway. Van Gogh doesn’t always get to be the bad guy in this relationship. He doesn’t get to be overly confident and prey on my insecurities. I didn’t send him to prison. This punishment isn’t fair, and if he insists on exacting it, he can be uncomfortable, too. I’m done being his play toy when he’s in the mood.
“My little flower has become a fighter.” Sliding his hands along my hips, he grips my waistband and yanks me hard into his chest. “Let’s see how brave you really are.”
“So, Reese, I’m sure you have some questions.” Enoch’s eyes find mine as his head lifts from the bowed position it was in. Even the supposed killers rounding the kitchen table recited the prayer that Enoch led.
Since returning from the office where I acted like a complete fool, threatening to burn this family’s home down, I’ve yet to say anything but thank you to Magda when she set a giant plate of food in front of me. Honestly, I’m too embarrassed to face anyone, let alone the man at the head of the table.
“Despite Alistair’s creative tales, you are safe here.”
I flash a wide-eyed look at Van Gogh—I can’t bring myself to call him Alistair—that I hope he interprets as what the fuck? Did he tell Enoch that he called them all killers and scared me? Or was it all a lie, and Van Gogh is pulling out his trademarked behavior and using fear to control me?
“Our family has been through a lot,” Enoch adds confidently, smiling proudly at my husband. “Our family is part of many pasts, but those mistakes are not who we are. The men around this table are just as noble as those who never make headlines.”
“Aww, Teach. You’re giving me a semi.” The man they call Tennyson flashes me a wicked smile and shovels a mound of eggs into his mouth.
“Tennyson, now is not the time.” Enoch turns his attention back to me. “What has Alistair told you about us?”
I’m suddenly taken back to a movie I once saw where the girl was human and fell in love with a vampire. When he finally took her to his home to have dinner with his family, he found it hard to control himself and nearly killed her.
Is this what this breakfast is? Did Van Gogh break some rule by marrying me and bringing me here? Is that why Enoch made such a big deal about until death do us part?
Oh, shit. What in the hell have I gotten myself into?
Van Gogh nudges me in the side. “Would you rather I answer?”
