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“More.”
Giving her what she wants until the metallic tang of blood hits my tongue, I then ease off.
“You like pain,” I say.
I don’t give her time to reply, because I don’t have time myself.
With a growl from deep in my belly, I come.
“Don’t stop!” she cries.
But I do. I do it even though it takes every ounce of pride I have not to give myself the pleasure of her release.
I pull out of her, my frustration mirrored in her face. She stares at me with unadulterated rage. Then she gives me a smile that stands the hair on the back of my neck on end.
“Fine,” she says. “You can punish me all you want.”
She slides off the desk, leaving a trail of our fuck on it. Then she pushes me out of the way.
Zipping myself up, I go to the door and hold it open for her.
“Fine,” she repeats.
She snatches her shirt and tugs it on. But as she moves toward the door, her gaze flicks to something behind me, and for an almost imperceptible second, her step falters. But just as quickly, she recovers.
When she tries to walk past me, I grab her. Holding her in place, I turn to look in the direction her eyes had been locked. “What the fuck did you see?”
Futilely tugging her arm, she growls, “Nothing.”
I pull her close. Her sweet and sinful scent wafts up to me, and I release her.
“What did you see?” I grit through my teeth.
“What makes you think I saw anything?”
Perhaps if she’d been anyone else, I wouldn’t have noticed it. But because it is, because I have every damned nuance of her committed to memory, every mannerism and facial expression, I did.
“You can’t hide anything from me, Carina.”
Rolling her chin away, she stares ahead at the portrait of my father. “Pennies.”
“What?”
“The hand draped over the back of the chair. It’s not empty. There are pennies in it. He’s holding pennies.” She approaches it and points. “If you shift your position, and the light hits it just right, you can tell there’s a different texture on them. As if someone came along later on and painted the pennies.”
I move to stand beside her and squint, trying to figure out what the objects visible between his fingers are. My eyes widen in disbelief at what I’m seeing. Pennies. Copper and round, with the word God visible on one of them. There’s no mistaking what they are.
Carina glances between my father and me. I feel her change from angry to curious. “What do you think it means?”
My lips part, yet I dare not speak the first thing that comes to mind.
But she does.
“It’s him,” she whispers. “Your father is the Ferryman.”
16
CARINA
