Page 63 of Gravehouse

“Fuck.” He drags his teeth across my bottom lip, the gesture so gentle I gasp. Whatever words he’s searching for scatter between us.

Dazed and drunk, the room spins around me. “What are you doing?”

“I need you to pay attention to my next words.” His lips skim mine, soft, familiar…mine. Shit. No, not mine. He lied.He dragged someone away…

“And if I tell you to go fuck yourself?” I pant, my mouth still burning with the aftertaste of him.

His grip tightens, holding me in place. “Then I’d tell you to come do it yourself.”

My complaints die when the hard ridge of his cock swells against me.

I drag my bottom lip into my mouth. “I’m better at fucking you than I am at shooting you, clearly.”

Something flickers across his face before he clears his thoughts. “You need to follow my lead.”

Everything in me pulls taut. What does he mean follow his lead?

He pauses, setting his weight back. “You’ve got questions, I get that, but I can’t answer them right now. Camille…”

His fingers stroke the spot he just pulled, loosening their hold in my hair.

“Know this isn’t about her, and it’s not about what happened in Désamour. That’s the first thing you need to get rid of.”

His eyes darken, and I trace the carved lines of his mouth, desperate to feel them again.

“You, Ivanya. It’s always been about you. That’s all I’ve got for you right now.”

He bends down, lips grazing the shell of my ear. “Out there… show them Mariée de la Mort.”

I’ve heard many people whisper that nickname, but never has it sounded quite like that.Mah-ree-AY day-lah-mo.

He leans back a little. “That is who you are, right?”

Silence.

My back hits the wall when he crowds in.

His eyes narrow. “Right?”

My heart skips several beats. “Camille will be wondering if you’re fucking your wife.”

“Answer my question,” he presses, not blinking. “Tell me I’m wrong. Lie to me again.”

Everything is quiet, the tension absorbing the space around us.

I step away from him, but he uses his body to cage me in place. He’s never going to let any of this go, but this isn’t only a secret that impacts me. It’s so much more than me, and it’s something an ego-hurt twenty-six-year-old can’t possibly understand.

No matter how much I want to make excuses for him, that’s what he is.

“If you have to ask me such things, then you already know I can’t answer.” I hold his gaze. “And you never answer any of my questions.”

Veins ripple over his neck.

I push on. “Where have you been for the past year?”

This is more than our argument now. I need to know how he got out.

“How’d you get out? Why aren’t you upset that Parker is dead, since he was your friend, wasn’t he? Why were you both fighting last winter?”