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I look at Biscuit like she will fill me in or gossip about this scene later, but something behind me holds her attention instead.
Of course, I look.
A killer could be perched in the window from across the way, where Van’s family lives. You never know the shit that can happen when you’re with Van.
Immediately, Biscuit darts off as I turn around, perching her chunky self on the window ledge and watching a hummingbird flutter at the open window.
“Is that why I am so freaking hot?” I whisper to Biscuit as she follows the bird with her head. “Because you wanted to bird watch?”
“Don’t threaten me, Cain, or I’ll drag you before Judge Gadot.”
The threat stops me cold.
No one threatens Van Gogh without consequences, but this man isn’t talking to Van Gogh. He’s talking to Alistair Cain.
The water stops, and dammit, I can’t help but get closer. I don’t know much about this man, but if I could learn, I could figure out a better way to escape my captor.
Padding across the wood floors, I press as close as I can to the wall without leaning against the door frame. The last thing I want is to fall into the bathroom and have Van Gogh realize I’m eavesdropping. He already thinks I’m a traitor. Listening in on his case would only add merit to his theory.
“Rudy.” The threatening rumble of his voice sends a tingle shooting through my center.
“You know how I feel about threats.”
I scoff. If he doesn’t, he’s about to—poor guy.
Without warning, I’m yanked inside the bathroom, facing a very wet and very naked Van Gogh.
His eyes are bright with hunger, holding me captive with the golden hues that I still dream about.
“Cain.” Rudy’s voice trickles in through the fog that I’m not sure is in my head or floating around me.
“Be reasonable. You don’t need him.”
Van’s gaze drops to my chest, where the oversized sleep shirt has slipped off my shoulder, revealing the tops of my breasts.
“I don’t care,” Van clips, the muscle in his jaw flexing as he takes in my embarrassing state of knee-high socks and a heaving chest. Thankfully, he isn’t privy to the heat gathering between my legs as I flat-out freaking ogle his bare chest, dripping with water as they follow the hard lines of his pecs, down to the deep ridges of his abs covered in tattoos—the most prominent one… a sunflower, surrounded by fire.
“Your client talks, or he spends the rest of his life watching his back. The choice is his.”
“And yours,” I whisper right before he ends the call, silencing the naked man before me. “You could show him mercy.”
I don’t know why I said it. Maybe I just wanted to piss off Van early in the morning to settle the score. Likely, though, I blurted out the plea because I, too, need his mercy.
I don’t know what to think about this new man who punishes legally and not with a flame.
Van’s jaw ticks, and I know my declaration doesn’t make him feel better. He wants me to suffer, and as I’ve said before, I will. But I won’t do it alone.
“On your knees,” he repeats. “Tell me you’re sorry like a good wife should.”
I think a normal wife would junk-punch him, but I suppose that’s not the wife I’m pretending to be. After all, I promised to pretend to love Van as a real wife would, and while I’m acting, I should also pretend that I’m not curious to see what he’s packing. I’ve felt his stiff cock press against me numerous times and noticed the bulge from his tight-fitting boxer briefs. But I’ve never seen my husband bare, and I must admit that my husband holds an appeal that settles deep into my stomach. It’s weird because marriage is just a useless contract and a pretty term that people use to show clout.
“Flower.” Van’s fingers interlace with mine, surprisingly gently.
There’s no way I’m allowing him to make me do anything. This man has far too much power already. Ignoring the tingles and heat that rush down my body, I lift my eyes slowly.
“All right, husband. I’ll apologize correctly.” Without dropping my gaze, I lower to the plush rug of the bathroom, bring my hands up slowly to hips, and linger for just a moment, enjoying how his eyes flick with tension. His body is taut as he fights a war within himself. Van Gogh can tell me all day long that this is all about punishment. But it isn’t. What we had that summer was real, and I knew he would come for me one day.
At my hesitation, Van throws his head back and makes this sound like he’s either annoyed or fighting back a groan.
