Oaths and Omissions (Monsters & Muses #3)(59)

Swallowing, I drop my gaze to his chin. His index finger hooks beneath mine, tipping my head so I’m forced to look at him.

“What were you expecting, love? For me to fall at your feet and worship you?”

Heat scorches my cheeks. “No, that’s not—”

His free hand comes up, fingertips grazing the side of my bare thigh. I’ve been wearing clothes to paint ever since the incident, too ashamed to act normally around him.

“I’ll do it.” He skims the cuff of my jean shorts, slipping beneath the denim.

“What?” I breathe, my focus splitting between his caress and his words.

“Drop to my knees and eat you until you’re trembling. Until tears stream down your cheeks and you beg me to stop, only to hold my head between your thighs because you’re a filthy little liar, and you wouldn’t really want me to stop. Not before you could soak my tongue.”

“Jonas,” I say, but it comes out as more of a sigh when he reaches for the button on my shorts, popping them open. “I just wanted you to stop ignoring me.”

The back of his palm sweeps over my pubic bone, making my abdomen tense up. His nose brushes my temple, his other hand sliding up to tangle in my hair, and it feels like he’s everywhere. Twisting and teasing, setting my body aflame when all I really wanted was his attention.

Well, Lenny, you certainly have it.

“If I don’t ignore you, I won’t get anything done.” He tugs on my hair, stealing a gasp from my lips. “All I can think about anymore is how bloody magnificent you looked with my cock in your mouth, and how I’m dying to return the favor.”

Slipping farther, he pushes beneath the elastic band of my panties, ghosting over the smooth skin until he reaches my clit. I suck in a sharp breath, my hand coming up to clamp down around his wrist, over the bracelet he always wears.

The W-shaped charm hanging off the leather catches my attention. “What’s that?” I ask, using all of my strength to keep him in place.

Jonas glances at the jewelry, frowning. “It used to be my father’s.”

My chest pinches, a core memory flashing through my mind—Daddy’s bald head, shaved because they had to remove bullet fragments from his skull. The awkward, mangled flesh that I couldn’t help but stare at every morning at breakfast when he came home, and how it’d been sliced through during the surgery.

Even the jagged incision didn’t obscure the letter, though. A W burned into the side of his head. Larger than the charm on Jonas’s bracelet, but complete with the same hollow finish and the roses and vines weaving inside.

Up until now, the reality of the man I’ve asked for help has been nothing but a distant idea. One I’ve been writing off in order to focus on staying out of Daddy’s clutches, and the conscious effort I’ve been making not to let my nightmares haunt me during the day.

But the truth is, this man is dangerous.

He kills people for a living. Almost killed my father.

Probably still wants to.

And yet, I feel… safe with him.

Secure enough with myself to let him touch me like this, when even the thought of being with anyone sexually made me violently ill mere months ago.

Maybe it lies within the fact that Jonas has already seen me at my lowest. The night we met, when my emotions were high and barely computing, as I stood coated in someone’s blood.

All he did was clean up the mess. Made it possible for me to accept what I’d done and move on in private, which would’ve never happened if I’d gone to Daddy. He would have announced my actions to the world, used them to spin some sort of victim-positive sentiment on behalf of Primrose Realty.

Jonas cleaned up quietly, quickly, and left me alone to deal.

There was no pressure.

No judgment.

Then again, maybe it’s just easier because he doesn’t know the full story.

Maybe being with someone loses its edge of vulnerability when that person isn’t aware that you’re fucked up.

Or maybe he’s just worse than me.

My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth as Jonas’s hand retreats, toying with the fabric of my jeans. I watch him carefully, noting the distinct lust in his hooded gaze, but also looking for signs of unease or resentment.

Something that might make holding on to my own anger and bitterness easier.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper finally, registering how fucked up it is that I’m just accepting this but also not giving a single shit about the morality of it.

This is the reality I asked for when I approached him weeks ago.

This, him, is exactly what I wanted.

“You didn’t kill him.” Jonas chuckles, brushing some stray hairs from my face.

My heart cracks inside my chest, fissures of sadness appearing in the muscle. His tone indicates that someone did, though his hesitance makes me feel as if he is unsure who, and I can’t think of anything more sad than not knowing the identity of someone who changed your life so drastically.

The way I’ve always known his.

“That’s not what I’m apologizing for.”





28





I’ve never been big on apologies.

Don’t like giving them, and I’m not a fan of receiving them either.

Especially considering that more often than not, they’re just words. And words have no correlative meaning unless you assign them one.