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Which I turn off by unceremoniously unplugging the speaker from the phone. Willow turns, and I see that she’s got a cigarette between her lips. No lipstick today, only an exceedingly large amount of black eyeliner. It makes her eyes look almost completely black when she scrunches them into a frown—as she does now.
She points her wooden spoon at me. “Don’t kill the mood. Put it back on.”
“I would rather be shot through the skull than listen to that so-called music for one second longer.”
I stride across the kitchen, footsteps silent on the mirror-smooth tiles, and pluck the cigarette from between her lips. I crush it into the side of the sink before tossing it into the food disposal unit.
“Don’t smoke in my house.”
“What are you, my dad? I—”
“You don’t have a father, Lynch.” I put my hand on her mouth and shove her away from the stove by her face. I peer into the pot she was stirring like some mad witch. “What the fuck is this slop?”
She yanks her head up and closes her teeth on the skin between my index and my thumb. She bites down hard. Instead of letting her go, I dig my fingers into her cheeks, thumb crushing into the straining muscle of her jaw. I push her head back, forcing her body to follow in quick backsteps until her hips hit the marble counter behind her, and I press my body right against hers.
“Bite harder.” My voice comes out low and calm despite the storm of adrenaline and excitement coursing through my veins. “If you were as tough as you think you are, you’d draw blood.”
Her eyes glint and her teeth slice deeper. The pain is interesting. Sharp and compartmentalised, like I’m feeling somebody else’s pain. Willow drops my hand abruptly from between her teeth and pushes away from me with a dismissive arm and a tut.
“You’re going to make me burn my food.”
“That swill barely qualifies as food.” I look down at my hand, the crimson marks imprinted, two crescents of rubies on my skin.
“Get over yourself. It’ssoup.” She slurps the brown mush from the tip of the wooden spoon, and I physically cringe when she places the spoon back in the pot. “Your mummy never cook for you, poor little rich boy?”
I grab a clean towel from a drawer and wrap it around my hand. “My mother didn’t cook—and our private chef didn’t use cigarette ashes for seasoning.”
“A lot to unpack here, Luca.” Willow speaks in a conversational tone, like we’re the best of friends discussing light gossip. She slips her hands into oven gloves and pulls a tray of misshapen buns from the oven. “Do you think your impotence might have something to do with your mother’s lack of attention? I bet she didn’t breastfeed you—” She glances at me and smiles with fake sweetness. “Just an avenue to explore with your therapist, that’s all.”
“Maybe my dick is an avenue you should explore withyourtherapist.” I watch her as she lays her tray of bread on the kitchen island. “Sounds like the thought of it is keeping you up at night.”
She smirks. “First time your dick would be keeping a woman up at night.”
“You hardly qualify as a woman, Lynch. You’re poison in human form.”
And then I grab her tray and empty it into the waste disposal unit.
Willow freezes, eyes wide as she watches her misshapen bread buns tumble into the trash. She doesn’t move an inch. She blinks slowly and swivels her head to me.
“You motherfucker.”
I toss the tray back on the kitchen island, where the metal clatters against the marble top, and give her a cold smile. “That’s between my therapist and me.”
I turn my back to leave and barely manage to dodge the can that goes flying past my head before smacking into the wall.
“Rot in hell!” Willow calls after me.
“I’m already living with you.”
24
Hot Date
Willow
I always celebrate Valentine’sDay. Just because I don’t believe in love doesn’t mean I don’t believe in chocolate or roses or orgasms.
If this was a normal Valentine’s Day, I would find a lonely soul to make me feel a bit human for a few hours, but since this is the day before the hunt, I schedule a quick and dirty hook-up with an old acquaintance from an older life.
