The steel hue of his irises is glazed with intoxication, and his eyes bore holes into mine. “I wanted a cookie.”
I slide the plate toward him and take a step back. “Knock yourself out.”
He steps forward and wedges the barrel of the gun under my rib cage. The coldness of metal seeps through the thin satin of my robe, and a chill shoots down my spine. “Feed it to me, Duchess.”
“Oh.” I lift my brows, feigning snark and incredulousness in an effort to mask my bone-rattling fear. “Are you planning to shoot me, Malachi?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” His words are a barely audible growl, and though there’s a glaze on his eyes and the pungent scent of alcohol on his breath, he doesn’t slur. He reaches forward with his free hand to press his palm against the base of my spine and pushes the pistol harder into my ribs. “I hope you don’t force me to choose before I’m ready. I don’t think you’ll like the outcome.”
“I hate to break it to you,” I say in a steady, assertive voice despite total fear infusing my veins, “but if you murder me, it’s not going to go over well with your parents,myparents, or the public. Or thelaw, for that matter.”
“Unlike you, I’m royal by birth, Duchess.” He arches one dark eyebrow. “I would face no repercussions.” He cocks his head at an angle. “Henry VIII had two wives executed for adultery.”
“Ididn’t commit adultery,andthis isn’t the sixteenth century, genius,” I clip, leaning away from the pistol but into his palm, “andyou’re not the fucking King of England. This isCorwick. Phillip is theheir, and you’re just thespare. You can’t get away with shit.”
“You haven’t committed adultery duringthis marriage,” Malachi counters, as though insinuating I cheated on himbefore. His silver, wolf-like eyes don’t stray from mine as a low, sardonic chuckle rumbles deep in his chest as he lifts the pistol away from my ribs, but keeps his hand on my back. “But I suppose the rest is true. Nevertheless, it would still do little to deter me.” He reaches with the pistol toward the plate of cookies and dips the barrel into the guava paste, pulling it back with a tiny red-orange glob stuck to the tip, and then he points it right at my mouth. “Have some, Duchess. I know these are your favorite.”
I cut my eyes downward, and I am literally staring down the barrel of a gun, and Malachi is fucking crazy, so the best thing I can do is comply.
I carefully draw the tip of my tongue over the guava, staring at his eyes while he stares at my mouth. His tongue mimics the motion of mine, sweeping across his upper lip while his fingers clutch at the satin on my back.
“You always did have a beautiful mouth.”
His words sound like a compliment, but I know it’s a threat. I also know he can probably sense the kindling of heat that’s rolling low in my belly despite my fear of him right now. I have let that secret slip on a number of occasions since he reappeared; that, despite hating him, I still want him; that he’s still a drug that I’ve been hooked on ever since my carnal desire for him came to life in me as a teen. He already used that knowledge to humiliate and toy with me on the night of the party last week. And I already know he’s going to use it again tonight.
Malachi drags the tip of the barrel down over my bottom lip, smearing the guava, and then lowers the pistol and inclines his face over mine. His breath is hot, yet light against my mouth, and fear wars with lust as my core clenches with wanton longing.
He draws his tongue in an upward sweep over my bottom lip and then murmurs, “Still a delicious combination.” He parts his mouth over my lip to suck hard before releasing it. “I always loved the taste of these cookies on your mouth.”
My breath catches, and I can barely back my words with my voice.“What are you doing, Malachi?”
“I decided I will consummate this marriage after all, Duchess.” My heart palpitates, and he raises the pistol again. “And I will do so right here in this kitchen. And I don’t need your fucking consent. Do you know why?”
I swallow hard, and he pulls me harder against him, but the hardest thing of all in this situation is his cock that is now pressing against my lower abdomen, separated by only a few layers of clothing. “Because you turned into an evil, godless man.”
“Wrong.” He dips the tip of the pistol into the guava again and then lowers it to reach between my thighs. Frigid steel skates across my skin and then draws up toward my pussy, which is now wet and aching in potent betrayal to me. “Because I am so well acquainted with your body that I can sense your arousal from miles away. The scent of how much you want me is so thick in this kitchen that there’s barely room left for oxygen. I know that you’re wet, and aching, and youneedme to relieve you.”
Malachi drags the pistol all the way up to slide between the lips of my pussy, and the stark contrast of cold, rigid steel against my hot skin causes my breath to hitch and my eyes to snap shut. He draws it forward and back in long, smooth strokes, and my knees are on the cusp of buckling beneath me, because he’s not wrong.
“Don’t you, Duchess?” He pulls my chest flush against his as he continues to stroke. “I don’t need you to say a word because your body is practically screaming for it. Isn’t it?”
I refuse to give him the satisfaction of either denying or confirming his accusation.
The cold steel suddenly disappears from between my thighs.
“Look at me, Duchess.”
My eyes fly open on pure reflex, and he’s aiming the gun right at my face. My arousal is evident on the barrel, mixed with the guava, glinting wet and shouting the guilt of my desire for him from the rooftops.
“Does this pistol look familiar to you?”
Out of sheer curiosity, I cut my eyes to it.
It’s shiny, polished chrome, and the grip is encrusted with gold and ivory and diamonds. I don’t need to see the word spelled out in jewels to know what it says.
Familia.
It’s Papá’s prized pistol. An heirloom from when he was still involved withLos Dolorosos.And my stomach plummets.
