Page 39 of Reign
My hand is at his throat, yes, but it isn’t violent. Not really. It’s pressure and possession, and the sort of contact we were always too stupid to separate from threat.
He knows it too; of course, he does. I’m standing between his knees, naked, still fucking hard, and glaring down at him because he’s trespassed directly into the center of my last functioning nerve. There is no version of this that reads as clean aggression.
His eyes flick once to my mouth, then lower, then come back up with amusement curling under the exhaustion in his face. “Good morning to you, too.”
“Don’t act cute, Vieri.”
He chuckles at that. “Impossible request.”
I squeeze slightly, just enough to make the line of his throat shift beneath my hand. “My guards let you in?”
He actually laughs, and it does nothing good to my pulse.
“You broke into my space twice,” he says. “It felt rude not to return the favor.”
“This isn’t a favor. This is suicidal.”
His brows lift. “Your men didn’t shoot me, which suggests they either know better or have excellent taste.”
I stare at him, incredulous. “You broke into Saint Helena to drink my coffee.”
“I didn’t break in,” he says. “Kai let me in.”
I blink, and he takes obvious pleasure in my confusion. All I can do is stare. Then a sound escapes me that’s half laugh and half deeply offended curse. “That fucking traitor.”
Vincenzo’s smile finally breaks free, small but real. “I made the coffee, though.”
I look toward the pot on the far counter as if that explains anything. It does not. Then I look back at him, and the smile is still there.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” I say.
“Neither were you, in my gym.”
“That was different.”
“Because you were shirtless?”
“Because I was asking questions.”
His gaze drifts meaningfully over my body. “Mhm, and this isn’t?”
I hate that I understand the flirtatiousness in it before he fully says it. I hate even more that my mouth nearly answers on instinct. I’ve been stoic for years by practice, by necessity, by sheer fucking survival. But around him all that old verbal filth comes prowling out of the cellar where I keep it, eager and half-starved.
“What exactly are you asking,” I say, keeping my tone flat on purpose, “while sitting in my kitchen at dawn?”
His eyes meet mine again. “Whether you always wake up this angry.”
“Only when I find Italians where my breakfast should be.”
His grin only grows wider. “There was a time when you never knew the difference.”
I can see it plainly that the bastard is enjoying himself now. There’s something almost boyish in the amusement, which would be less dangerous if it didn’t pair so obscenely with the man he’s grown into.
At Vintermoor, he was the one with more control, always the composed one on the surface, while I snapped and bit and pushed. Now the temperament has shifted in the most insulting possible way.
I’m the one standing here with a hand at his throat, trying to remember I’m supposed to be a feared Pakhan. He’s the one sitting there practically begging to be ruined with that infuriating lazy confidence and a mouth made for trouble.
He sees the realization happen, and a laugh slips out of him, wicked and far too pleased. I narrow my eyes. “I’m about to put you through the counter.”
