VenCo(98)

She took that on the chin. “The good thing about rags is, they never stop being useful. They might change along the way—clothes to fabric, fabric to scraps—but they keep on going. They’re never trash.”

“One could argue that they started off as trash.” He threw it out there without much force. Petty insults were beneath him.

“Fuck you,” she retorted, and he laughed.

“Trash indeed.” He poured a glass of red wine from an open bottle on the fireplace mantel and sipped. “At any rate, how are you going to do this?” He seemed genuinely curious but also smug. She hated smug assholes.

She walked around the room, pretending to examine the paintings, running her fingers along the furniture, all the while watching him out of the corner of her eye. “How am I going to do what?” When she reached the bed, she threw herself on it, shoes and all. Laying on her stomach, legs bent and ankles crossed, she hoped she seemed relaxed, casual. She also hoped he didn’t notice her slip the small blade out of her pocket and under a pillow.

“Get your spoon, of course. You know it’s here. Otherwise you wouldn’t be. And I know you need it. Meena needs it.”

Lucky said, “Oh, you’re just going to give it to me.” She tried to sound confident. The fact that he couldn’t touch her had emboldened her.

He studied her face, then feigned shock, placing a hand on his chest. “You’re serious?” He threw his head back and laughed. She watched the veins under the skin of his long throat move like small snakes. She suddenly wondered what it would be like to put her mouth on them, to feel the heat and flow of him.

She looked away. She couldn’t let him fascinate her this much. “So how does it feel to be nothing more than a cop?”

He stopped laughing. “A cop?”

“Yeah, I mean, isn’t the Benandanti thing just being a foot soldier for the dudes pulling your strings?” She moved her hands as if she were making a marionette dance off the side of the bed.

“I answer to no one.” His voice was low, almost a growl. “I am in and of myself.”

She needed him angry, so she pushed some more.

“It’s weird that you all built a whole system to keep women disempowered. That’s a lot of work to waste on the ‘weaker sex,’ don’t you think?”

“We didn’t create the system. You did.” He pointed at her with his glass before drinking deeply. Then he poured himself more wine from the bottle.

“Women created the patriarchy? That’s your argument?” It was her turn to laugh.

He glared at her, then switched gears, leaning in. “Lucky, it’s too hot in here,” he said. “We need to take some clothes off.”

Eyes locked on hers, he unbuttoned and pulled off his vest. Without another thought, Lucky slipped off the bed and yanked her black T-shirt over her head. She had heard his words as her own thoughts—that of course she had to take her clothes off.

He was undoing his shirt, keeping up a melodious flow of words. “The very earliest witches were the ones who organized a group of men to go forth and do their work, as they sat back and plotted and commanded and spoke with the gods. Pretending they were too precious to get their hands dirty, to be in harm’s way. Like we were the disposable ones. And we were just supposed to do it, mindlessly.” He yanked his shirttails free.

She sat down to unlace her boots, and her eyes caught on the revelation of his skin, the front of his shirt falling wide open as he undid his cufflinks. Holy fuck, he was smooth. “But you liked it too much, right? Liked playing Big Man too much to just be mindless helpers, right?”

“Why go back?” He shrugged, then pulled his arms out of his sleeves. “If we’re pretending to be leaders, why not just lead?”

When her first boot dropped to the floor, he noticed but kept talking. Prudence had taught him the art of commanding without force but with influence. Lucky was under his influence. “Then it was just a matter of making sure the women couldn’t snatch it back. A carefully executed plan of bad PR and serious consequences did the trick. The witches were outnumbered, hidden, small . . . disposable.”

Lucky’s second boot hit the floor, and he pounced.

But still he couldn’t touch her, remaining suspended, inches from her face, both of them breathing hard. “I . . . I don’t understand . . .”

“The cedar is in my socks.” She wanted to sound more sure of herself, but she was panting. When he broke eye contact, she was shocked to find herself sitting there in her bra and jeans.

He scanned her body so slowly she had time to wonder what she would do if he did break through her protection. Would she stop him? Could she at this point? He knelt in front of her, bent so that she saw the curve of his spine, the flex and pull of muscle along his back. He examined her black ankle socks. She wiggled her toes, releasing the scent of cedar.

He looked up at her through dark lashes. “We need to finish getting comfortable.”

This time she moved of her own volition. Standing up in the small space between him and the bed, she undid her zipper and pushed her tight jeans down over the curve of her ass and hips. She stepped out of them, kicking them away.

Standing in front of him in her bra, panties, and socks, she whispered, “Now you.” She fought to keep her arms at her sides. She wanted to cover herself and she wanted to touch him, and both urges gave her a deep shame that was thrilling.