Brutal Vows (Queens & Monsters #4)(19)

“You sure? You look a bit flustered.”

“This is how I always look before I throw up.”

He pulls his lips between his teeth. His eyes sparkle, and his chest starts to shake.

He’s laughing at me again.

What a big fucking surprise.

“Mr. Quinn—”

“Spider.”

I glare at him, heat burning my cheeks and my heart pounding. “I will never call you that stupid nickname. Now please. Go.”

He tilts his head and examines my expression. His eyes are still hot, but there’s something soft in them, too. Something…unexpected.

He points at my empty chair and orders, “Sit.”

My back stiff, I answer through clenched teeth. “I don’t respond to commands. I’m not a dog.”

“God knows you’re not,” he says hotly. “Now get your fine arse in that chair, woman. Don’t make me tell you a third time.”

That sounded distinctly like a threat. I snap, “Or what?”

He growls, “Or I’ll take you over my knee and teach you some bloody manners.”

This bastard just threatened to spank me!

My heart takes off into a thundering gallop. My hands start to shake. My breath is shallow, and there’s a high-pitched ringing in my ears.

I can’t remember the last time I was this furious.

Oh, wait. Yes, I can.

The last time he was in my house.

I glance longingly at the wooden block of sharpened kitchen knives on the counter.

Quinn says softly, “Reyna.”

I look at him. Big, masculine, and handsome, taking up all the space in the room. His gaze like a forest fire and the faintest hint of a smile hovering on his full, sculpted lips.

Suddenly, I can’t wait to get out of here.

But I already know enough about the Irishman to realize that the only way that will happen is if I give him what he wants first.

So I sit.

I grab my glass of wine and guzzle it.

Then I look at him in nervy silence, waiting.

He sits there and smolders back at me, a whirlwind of unspoken questions in his eyes.

I’m about to jump back up and run out of the room when he says abruptly, “Why do you live with your brother and niece?”

“Why do you have a spiderweb tattoo on your neck?”

It’s out before I can stop it. I had no idea I was curious about that stupid tattoo until just now.

He sets his forearms on the table and leans closer. “I’m the one asking the questions.”

“I know you think you’re in charge of everyone in the universe, Mr. Quinn, but you’re deluded.”

“I’m not in charge of everyone in the universe. Only everyone in this house.”

God, how I hate him for that. How I hate his dominating confidence and his pathological maleness, his assumption that he—and only he—is the one in control.

I hate it more than anything that he’s right.

Because in our world, men are in charge.

And alpha males like him are the very top of the food chain.

My poor sweet Lili. He’s going to eat her alive.

“I won’t hurt her,” he says suddenly, startling me.

“What?”

“I said I won’t hurt her. I know you’re worried about that, but I’ve never laid a hand on a woman in my life.” He laughs softly. “Well, not in anger.”

I look away, unnerved that he can read my mind so easily, and also by the vivid image my mind unhelpfully provided me of him on top of a naked woman, thrusting between her spread thighs as she arches and cries out in ecstasy.

My face flushes hot again. It seems to be happening with concerning frequency.

“Let’s try again. Why do you live with your brother and your niece?”

I flatten my hands on the tabletop and stare down at them as I gather the necessary mental armor to answer.

“When my husband died, I…” I stop to clear my throat. “I’d never lived alone before. I went straight from my father’s house to Enzo’s. After the funeral, I went home to that big, empty house, and I couldn’t stand it. The awful silence.”

And the awful memories. Lurking goblin memories that haunted me at every turn.

“So I packed a bag and came here. I’ve been here since. I’ll get a place of my own eventually. I just…haven’t yet.”

“How long have you been a widow?”

“Three years.”

Three blissful, broken-bone-and-bruise-free years.

I notice my hands shaking, so I pour myself the last of the wine from the bottle and gulp it down. Quinn watches me silently, his gaze intense.

“How long were you married?”

“Too fucking long.”

“And how long is that?”

I draw a steadying breath and glance at the ink on my ring finger. It’s black and comforting, a visual reminder of the promise I made to myself that no man would ever own me again.

“Fourteen years.”

“That’s a long time.”

To spend in hell.

Aloud, I say, “It felt longer.”

Neither of us speaks after that for a while. Then he says, “Tell me about the rest of the family.”

“Like what?”