Vipers and Virtuosos (Monsters & Muses, #2)(46)

Without listening to any more of the messages, I slide my finger from the red button and hold down the delete one above it, waiting until the dial tone tells me there are no more messages left.

My gaze drifts to the top of the stairs, and I stuff my hands in my jean pockets, rocking back on my heels. Weighing the consequences of going up while I can still feel anger pulsing through my blood.

Gritting my teeth, my feet carry me two steps at a time, and before I have a chance to think better of it, I’m pushing open the door to her bedroom and moving to the foot of her mattress.

The floor lamp in the corner casts the room in a dull hue, and I can just barely make out the tint of her hair as it fans across her pillow.

So beautiful. So fucking delicate, and innocent—if you don’t know better.

Sinking onto the edge of the bed beside her, I snake my palm over the curve of her hip, on top of the covers; she’s on her side, facing me with her tiny palms tucked under the pillow, her breathing soft and soothing.

A clock ticks somewhere in the house, echoing through the halls; combined with the heat of her body and the gentle caress of air as it escapes her nose, I can almost grasp a shred of serenity. It teases my fingertips, the edge of oblivion taunting my fury.

But I plunged off the deep end long ago, and I’m no longer interested in swimming back to shore.

Curling my fingers over the hem of her blanket, I tug the plush material away, my cock springing to life at the sight of her bare skin.

Christ.

It’s the first time I’ve seen her naked form since the other night in the tub, and my breathing grows erratic as I recall how she came with my name on her lips.

How I would have given up music entirely, in favor of hearing that one song on her lips forever.

Still, I’ve never seen her this close up and naked, at least not completely. Not long enough to appreciate it.

The night at the tattoo shop, the shape of her sopping cunt and the feel of her thighs against my ears are seared into my memory, but the top half of her body is uncharted territory.

I swallow, a hard knot lodging at the base of my throat as my eyes rake over her. Those peach-colored nipples pebble as they’re exposed to the cool air, and I grip the blanket tighter, resisting the urge to strum my thumb over one.

It’s bad enough that I’m looking.

Perfectly swollen tits give way to a flat, slightly concave stomach, which tapers to round hips and porcelain thighs. Folding the cover back so it rests just above her knees, I sit back and admire the shadowed view.

God, the things I want to do to her.

Depraved things—things a man like me, stuck indefinitely in the public eye, shouldn’t crave. But every cell in my body screams out for her, like sheep helpless against the slaughter.

A whimper startles me, and my eyes shoot to her face, afraid she’s woken and caught me staring. Her eyes are still closed, though. Relaxed as she traipses through dreamland, completely unaware of the danger sitting at her bedside.

My hand twitches, my gaze sliding over the slender slope of her neck, tracing the ridges of her collarbone, the dip of her navel. She shifts, scissoring her thighs as if trying to get comfortable, and the movement draws my attention to her partially-covered hip.

Lifting a hand, I gently reach out, trying to suppress the trembling. Eyes snapping to hers, I watch, rapt, as my fingers sweep over the ink there, tracing the slightly raised lines as if they weren’t seared into my being the moment I put them there.

Angel.

Something pinches in my chest, prodding at my heart like a hot poker as I crest the point of the letter A. She shifts again, inching closer, and my finger moves higher; it brushes against something rough, and I frown, following the trail of distinctly smooth skin disappearing under the blanket.

It zips up toward her belly button, stopping at the edge, and when she rolls to her back, I see a flash of shiny white.

Planting my palm on the other side of her, I lean in to try and get a better look; the closer my nose gets to her body, the stronger that peppermint scent gets, and I’m thrust back in time to the night we met.

When I buried my head between her legs—but not before she kept me from raising her shirt.

My heart weighs heavy as I determine it’s a large scar, but I have no idea where she could have gotten it.

From what I’ve been able to learn about Riley Kelly, her mother was a known drug addict, and they were far from well off, but there are no extensive medical records of hers detailing the kind of assault something this large would entail.

I know scars. This is not the kind you come by honestly.

Sitting back on the bed, I absently slip a finger beneath the band of my watch, satisfying the ever-present itch lurking beneath my tattoos.

I start to cover her back up, hating the sympathy pulsing around the edges of my soul, desperately seeking entrance. If I allow myself to feel bad for her, then I lose my advantage, and my entire reason for coming to this literal hell is moot.

Riley’s head jerks on the pillow, twisting as she lets out another whimper. Her fingers tangle in the sheets, clutching them to her chest, and as she thrashes, I see the same slivers of perturbed flesh on her face; one at the corner of her mouth, the other slashed across her cheek.

What the fuck?

Those, I definitely would’ve noticed in New York. Most of what I did that night was stare at her perfectly symmetrical nose and imagine how soft her lips would be.

Frowning, I glance down at them, recalling they’d been softer than I ever could’ve imagined. That kissing her felt like coming home after a lifetime of not even realizing you’d been missing.