Page 101 of King of Ashes
The moment we sit in the car, his phone rings, and I go through the emails since Conrad always adds me to the CC line.
Everything has gone smoothly in my absence.
I expected nothing less.
Just landed. I’ll return later today,
I type, and Conrad reacts with a thumbs-up.
Slipping my phone back into my purse, I notice his features tightening. “I’ll be there in a few,” he says, hanging up.
“What happened?”
He glares out the window as if it were an enemy he would like to snuff. “Word got out that my uncle is sick. And those greedy assholes are tearing each other apart to take his place when I haven’t even buried him.”
I place my hand on his thigh and squeeze it in silent support, trying to comfort him. “I’m here.”
He cocks his head, his features softening. “Promise?”
“I promise.”
He lifts my hand to his mouth, placing a sweet kiss on the inside of my palm.
Accompanying me inside the penthouse, he kisses me. “I’ll return as soon as possible.”
He rakes his eyes over my body, the hunger clear, igniting mine. Experience has proven it’s a fine line we dangle on. I push him inside the elevator before we forget about anything but satisfying a need that seems impossible to quench.
He chuckles, stealing another kiss before the elevator doors close. “Later, wife.”
I move to the living room, play some music, then sit in the armchair by the window and scroll through the pictures of our honeymoon. My favorite is when we woke up from a long night of passion. I had my cheek on his biceps, and his face was buried in my neck, rumpled sheets and sunrays kissing our faces.
I get lost in watching them and only stop when I hear a throat clearing. That’s one way of pulling someone from an alternate fantasy. My phone slips from my hand, and I jerk up, startled.
His uncle steps in front of me, frowning at the image on my phone. It’s a picture of Vian smiling back at me, untroubled, with the sun setting in the background.
“He loves you too much,” he says, the sigh of disapproval hitting me straight in the chest.
While both his uncle and his aunt welcomed me, he keeps me at a distance. Without Vian here, I don’t have to filter my curiosity.
“What is your deal with me? You don’t even know me, but you decided not to like me.”
He expels a heavy breath of air and goes to the bar.
“Should you be drinking?” I ask, concern lacing my voice.
He waves me off as he pours himself a tumbler. “I do whatever the hell I please in my last days. And you sound like him. Jesus. It’s like someone made you from the same fabric,” he mutters, and I smile, taking it as a compliment.
I place my phone on the coffee table as he sits across from me. For long minutes, we engage in a stare-down contest, neither of us saying a thing.
I don’t know how much time passes, but realizing he has none to spare and should spend it with his loved ones, I forgo the silent battle. “Why don’t you like me?”
He swirls the glass in his hand, the liquid perilously close to overtopping, watching the contents as if they convey the answer. “I like you. I’ve always liked you. What I don’t like is your power over him.”
Even if he thinks he knows stuff about me, as in the mafia keeping files on everyone is imperative, he knows nothing of substance.
“I intend to be by his side. That’s why I married him.”
His eyes set on me with cold assessment. “And here I thought it was a business deal.”
