Series: Webs We Weave Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 145038 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 725(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 483(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145038 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 725(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 483(@300wpm)
I grimace at the music. “This is shrill. Do they play all night?”
“Wrap it up,” he tells the quartet.
My brother hardly glances in my direction as he packs away his violin. The other musicians hurry with their instruments, and soon, it’s just me and Trent. Alone in the parlor. I pour another round of whiskey and hand him the glass.
He grins. “And then there were two.”
Trust me. I’m not the one you want to be left alone with.
THIRTY-SIX
Rocky
The Badger Game (Continued)
It’s almost midnight when Trent goes to bed and I’m able to sneak into Phoebe’s guest room. She hasn’t changed out of the blue dress. She has her temple to the window frame, gazing out into the night.
“Watching the waves?” I ask, locking the door behind me.
She doesn’t turn. “The grounds. Gardeners are still pruning the hedges.”
Her room is smaller than mine. The ornate four-poster bed is twin-sized. With its ugly ruffled bedding in a Pepto-Bismol pink and a collection of old porcelain dolls on a shelf, I wonder if this room belonged to a child.
At least there’s a chair. While I grab it, Phoebe gradually rotates and watches me jam the wooden frame underneath the doorknob.
She leans her shoulders on the wall. “You know how messed up it is that we’re worried Trent might break into my room tonight?”
“This family is fucked up.” I comb a hand through my hair, pushing the longer pieces back, then bend down and untie my leather shoes. “You want to talk about it?” I still have no clue what happened when Phoebe was with Claudia, but I can make some great educated guesses.
“Tonight was…” She takes a deep breath and a hundred-watt smile lights her face. “Exhilarating.”
“Yeah?” I ask, coming closer to wrap my arms around her waist. “You get off on it?”
She sways in my arms like we’re slow dancing, and her brown eyes sparkle with infectious energy that pools into me. “I did. I forgot…I really forgot how this feels.” She frowns. “Or maybe it’s because this is different than all the other times. She won’t be able to hurt anyone else.”
My gaze darkens, and I tuck a strand of her blue hair behind her ear. “Did she hurt you?”
Phoebe slowly removes her silk glove. “She slapped me,” she says. “And this…” She overturns her hand, palm up, and I see the bright red skin. A blister already forms in the center.
Caged darkness threatens to unleash in a round of violent anger. I want to lash out. I want to rip apart. I want to destroy. My lungs are charred when I ask, “Is that a burn?”
“With a candle.” Phoebe’s brows draw together. “It might be first-degree.”
“We’ll have Nova take a look at it tonight,” I say, since he’s the only one of us with any kind of formal medical training.
She shakes her head. “Tomorrow. I can wait until tomorrow. I don’t want anything to ruin tonight.”
“Until then…” I carefully take her hand and kiss around the redness.
Her eyes dance over me. “Oh so tender for someone so lethal.”
“Believe me,” I tell her. “I’m restraining myself from doing very bad things in the name of vengeance.”
She glows brighter. “My favorite name.”
“Hmm,” I muse. “I thought that was Rocky.”
“Are you sure?” She feigns confusion. “I don’t recall that being on my favorites list.”
“Let me fucking remind you then.” I explode forward, clutching her face with a feral ferocity. She grabs on to my belt loops and hangs on as our lips collide in hunger. Cupping her skull, I lead her back toward the twin bed.
Her ass hits the mattress first, and I pull off my belt. My suit. I strip in front of her, letting her watch me with aroused eyes.
“Let me tell you my favorite word, mikrí fráoula.”
Her face radiates with newfound heat. “Rocky.” She says my name in a shallow breath.
I’m naked before her, and I slowly crawl on top of her body, hauling her farther onto the small bed. “What’s wrong, petite fraise?” I tease in French instead of Greek as I fist the blue tulle of her gown in my hands, bringing the puffy material up to her waist.
“Stop.” She fights a smile.
“Morango pequeno.” I switch to Portuguese, calling her little strawberry over and over again in all the languages I’ve picked up.
“Rocky…” She sounds out of breath as I slip her panties off her legs.
“Still not my favorite word,” I tell her and tease her opening, circling my thumb over her clit. “Try again.”
“I-I…” Her eyes flutter, and her fingers claw at my back. I war with the tulle. Such an annoying, obtrusive—I rip the fucking thing. All of it. A flurry of tulle cascades to the floor as I tear it off the bodice of the dress. A shocked gasp leaves her lips. She’s completely bare from the waist down, and I descend back to her lips. Tasting her. Having her. Mine.