by Penelope Sky
Bones didn’t say anything else as he ate in silence.
The silence was so damn nice. I preferred him when we were fucking. The sex was good, and he didn’t talk. If he did talk, he said things I liked to listen to. But when the hormones were gone, he reminded me of how vile he was.
And the fact that I had to kill him.
“Where were you?” I asked in an attempt to make conversation.
“Why? Miss me?”
“If I just say yes, will you answer the question?” I asked sarcastically.
“No. You already proved how much you missed me last night.” He wiped his plate clean, his eggs, bacon, and pancakes long gone. “I had a hit in Switzerland. It’s been taken care of.”
“A hit?” I asked.
“That’s what I do for a living—kill people.”
“You’re an assassin?” I asked coldly.
“I wouldn’t call myself that.” He kept one hand on his mug, comfortable talking about this sort of thing in a crowded restaurant. “A hitman is a better description. People commission me to do their dirty work.”
“And you just kill people?” I said harshly. “Without a single thought to who they are.”
“You really shouldn’t judge me, baby.”
“Too late,” I snapped. “That’s disgusting and wrong.”
“Then you must think your uncle is disgusting and wrong.”
I lost my confidence, shaken by what he said.
He knew he’d successfully planted some doubt. “It’s how I survive, and I’m not ashamed of it.”
“You should be. And my uncle would never do that.”
“Maybe not now, but he did when he was your age. He worked for the Skull Kings. He was a Skull King. And he murdered all kinds of people.”
Uncle Cane was a good man who had been another father to me. He was affectionate, kind, and never showed a hint of violence. “No, he didn’t.”
“Don’t believe me?” he asked. “Ask him.”
“I don’t need to.”
He grinned. “Because you know I’m right.”
“That’s not why.”
“Yes, baby. It is.”
I stared into my mug, feeling my heart beat so fast. I knew my parents had criminal ties, but they wouldn’t kill people for money.
“And your brother and cousin aren’t as honorable as you think they are. They go to the Underground where women are for sale and they—”
“Don’t. Talk. About. My. Family.” I grabbed the butter knife even though there was very little I could do with it. “I have every right to hate your father, but I’ve never said a bad thing about him. You told me about your mother, but I’ve been nothing but respectful toward her memory. My family is everything to me, and I don’t give a damn who you are, don’t speak of them that way. I’ll stab this knife in your neck right now if that gets you to shut up.”
He crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes full of intensity. He didn’t smile like he usually did when I stood up to him. My words seemed to actually mean something to him this time. “I wasn’t speaking badly about them. Believe it or not, I’m actually relaying facts to you.”
I slammed the knife down, right into the center of his forearm.
Like he’d anticipated it, he moved out of the way just in time.
The knife was stuck in the wood because it pierced it so deep.
People glanced at us from their tables, hearing the loud sound. After a few seconds of silence, they looked away.
Bones yanked the knife out of the table and put it to the side. “I’m gonna let that one go this time. But pull something like that again, and I’ll do the exact same thing back to you. So if you make a move, you better kill me.”
I stared him down with the same cold expression he gave me. “Oh, I will.”
We returned to the apartment, but I just wanted him to leave.
“Go.” I pulled off my jacket and hung it by the door. I yanked off my gloves next and stepped into my living room. “I’m sure you have someone else to kill.”
He hung his jacket by the door next to mine, like he wasn’t planning on leaving anytime soon. “There’s always someone to kill, but I work too much as it is.” He walked to my easel by the window and admired the painting I was working on. I was recreating a picture my family took last year at Christmas. We were gathered around the grand dining table, a large roasted turkey in the middle along with the rest of the feast. Red candles were all around, and everyone I knew and loved was gathered together. It was difficult to paint because there was a lot of detail in the piece.
Our conversation at breakfast was horrid, and I had no interest in continuing it. If he said anything, I’d grab that kitchen knife out of my fridge and go for it.
He stared at the unfinished painting and the actual photograph sitting in the corner. He stood with his back to me for a long time, admiring it quietly.
I waited for him to unleash an insult, to bully my family or my artistic skills.
But an insult never came. “You made this?”
I looked up from my spot on the couch, my arms crossed over my chest. “Yes. I’m painting it for my family for Christmas. Since I’m broke, I try to make them things. Maybe when I start making money in a few years I’ll actually start buying them nice things.”
“Why would they want you to buy them something when this is priceless?”
He sounded serious, but I wasn’t sure if he was being sincere. Anytime the subject of my family came up, he was harsh and rude. Seeing my happy family gathered around for the holiday would just infuriate him more. “I can’t tell if you’re joking…”
He turned around, showing me his dead serious expression.
Okay, maybe he was being serious.
“It’s amazing, Vanessa.” He hardly ever said my first name. It was usually baby. I’d gotten so used to the nickname that my real name sounded strange coming from his lips. He picked up the painting from the easel then carried it to the couch. He sat beside me as he examined it. The light from the window flooded the room, giving light to the piece. “So much detail. And their faces…look so lifelike. It’s only halfway finished, and it already looks like a masterpiece.”
Bones always said things I didn’t want to hear, so it was unlike him to flatter me just because. He could have not said anything about the painting at all and just sat down. But he seemed genuinely invested in what he was looking at.
I shouldn’t care about his opinion, but it meant a lot to me. “Thanks…”
“You don’t need to go to school. You are a painter.”
“I don’t know about that…”
“I do.” He stared at it longer then looked at the picture in the corner. “It looks just like the photograph. Was that last year?”
“Yeah.”
“Your parents didn’t buy your other paintings out of pity. They did it because you’re fucking talented.”
I lowered my gaze, unable to meet his look for the first time.
“Baby, I’m being honest.” He carried the painting back to the easel. He looked at it for another moment before he turned back to me. “Do you have any others?”
“I have one that I finished during the semester. It’s the one I told you about.”
“Can I see it?”
He just told me he liked my painting, but I was still nervous to show him my next one. I wasn’t a shy woman who let people’s opinions affect my life. I didn’t care what anyone thought of me, only what I thought of myself. “Sure…” I retrieved it from the closet and handed it over.
He examined it with the same interest as the previous one. He set it on his knees and gripped it with his hands, looking at my parents standing in the vineyards with the three-story villa in the background. It was a stunning picture of Tuscany, the wonderful place where I spent my childhood. I’d intended to sell this piece, but I liked it so much that I might keep it for myself. My parents were role models to me, had done so much for me. One day, they would be gone, but
I would have this memory of them forever.
“I like this one too.”
I sat beside him on the couch, staring at his chiseled forearms as he held the canvas. It must annoy him to stare at an image of my parents, the people who survived the blood war and lived happily ever after. But he didn’t show it this time. “Thanks…”
“What else do you paint?” He set it down and leaned it against the table.
“It’s usually people on landscapes. Only Italy, since I’ve never been anywhere else. But the people of this country love and appreciate their land. Maybe I’ll travel around the country and paint different places every summer, like Lake Como, Siena, and other places that people adore. And then I can put them in my gallery and hope someone buys them.”
“Someone will buy them,” he said. “And I think that’s a great idea. Why don’t you open this gallery now?”
“I don’t have the money, for starters. And two, I don’t have any paintings to sell.”
“You have this one.” He nodded to the paintings on the ground. “That painting could clear twenty thousand euros.”
I laughed hard because the sum was ridiculous.
He kept a straight face, staring me down coldly. “I’m being serious. People pay good money for art like that. Maybe you can get even more for it.”
“I appreciate you being nice to me for a change, but I’m an amateur. I’m not at that level.”
His eyes narrowed aggressively. “One of the things I respect about you is your self-worth. You never underestimate yourself and have warned me not to do it either. You’re smart, resourceful, and spunky. You’re confident but never arrogant. You stand on that fine line and keep your balance. It’s hard for me to listen to you talk about yourself like that because it’s out of character for you. And frankly, it makes me respect you less.”
Now my eyes narrowed in hostility. “I appreciate that you think my paintings are good, but you aren’t an expert. You’re a bigger amateur than I am. Art is much more complicated than people think it is.”
“I’m a customer, and I’m telling you, I’d pay big money for something like this.”
“If you weren’t sleeping with me, you wouldn’t think twice about my paintings,” I countered. “You’re blind.”
“Maybe,” he said. “But if you were standing in that gallery, beautiful and fiery, people would start pouring in—men and women. It’s annoying to hear you make up excuse after excuse instead of just going for it.”
“Annoying?” I snapped. “Excuses? I need more training before I break off on my own. Only stupid, arrogant people think they know it all—people like you. And that’s their downfall.”
“You’re wasting your money. There’s nothing they’re teaching you that you don’t already know.”
“You wouldn’t know.”
“Yes.” He nodded at the painting. “It’s pretty fucking clear. Drop out and save your money. Use that cash to open a gallery.”
I was embarrassed to say this next part, but I couldn’t lie about the truth. “My father pays for my education…” He paid for this apartment and all my food. I was dependent on him, and I didn’t like it.
“Then save him money by leaving. Start painting full time. And start selling it. Sell it on the street if you have to.”
“Because that’s classy…”
“Doesn’t your family have a winery?” he asked. “Why don’t you display your artwork there?”
It wasn’t a bad idea, especially on the weekends in the summer when the tourists flocked to the wine tastings. But hearing him pressure me into these things made me think of something else. “That plan doesn’t work if you kill me and my family. Do you make all your prisoners ambitious? Is that part of your torture?”
He stared forward and looked at the painting on the ground, the muscles near his jaw slightly shifting under the skin as he squared his mouth. His large shoulders shifted forward as he rested his elbows on his knees. His size destroyed the cushion he was sitting on, making it sink just the way he did with my mattress. “There’s still the possibility you may kill me first. I know my baby, and I know you won’t give up until I’m dead—and I expect nothing less.”
It was the strangest thing.
Bones lay on the couch, his full length reaching from top to bottom. His feet even hung over the edge a bit. Just in his boxers, he was mostly naked.
I lay on top of him because there was nowhere else to lie. I was in my panties because that was the only thing he allowed me to put on after he fucked me on my bed. A blanket was pulled over my body to keep me warm, but Bones didn’t need the warmth because he was his own furnace.
The TV was on, and we watched it together.
Like a couple.
One hand was propped under his head while the other rested on the small of my back.
I didn’t know when he was leaving, but it didn’t seem like it was anytime soon.
I had to leave for Tuscany tomorrow. That way, I would be there by Christmas Eve. I should have left sooner, but his unexpected visit caught me off guard. I figured he’d have to get back home or to work, but he continued to linger.
I propped myself up on his chest, my forearms resting against his hard abs, and looked down at him. “I’m leaving tomorrow morning.”
He turned his gaze away from the TV and looked at me. “Where are you going?”
I didn’t like being questioned, like I was reporting to him. “Home for Christmas.”
“Christmas isn’t for a few days.”
“Well, I want to be there by Christmas Eve.”
“You can leave Christmas Eve morning.” He turned back to the TV like the conversation was over.
“What just happened here?”
He turned back to me, his bright eyes pretty in comparison to his cruel face.
“You don’t tell me what to do. You don’t give me permission. That’s not how this works.”
“You’re my prisoner, and I own you,” he said simply. “Yes, that’s how this works.”
“I’m leaving tomorrow morning, and that’s the end of the story.”
He grinned even though nothing about this was funny. “I like making you mad. It’s fun.”
I smacked him in the chest, feeling his hard body not even flinch. “Fuck you.”
He chuckled even though I hit him pretty hard. “Alright, I’ll let you go.”
“Let?” I hissed.
“It’s so easy…”
I smacked him again.
“When will you be back?”
“I don’t know. A few days after Christmas. Do you have plans for the holiday?” It didn’t seem like he interacted with anyone on a daily basis. I didn’t see him take phone calls or text messages. Richard seemed to be the only person he had.
“My crew and I will go out drinking—our tradition.”
“Who’s this crew?”
“Some of my buddies. We do business together.”
Killing people. “I see…” A part of me pitied him for not having a family to spend the holiday with. Going out and getting drunk seemed terribly depressing. I would go to a big house stuffed with people, and we would drink wine all day and open presents. Even Lars shared the holiday with us, getting more presents than anyone. He was a grandfather to me.
“Don’t feel bad for me.” He turned back to the TV. “I hate that shit.”
He was right. I shouldn’t feel bad for him. He wouldn’t be alone if he valued real relationships and didn’t hang out with murderers. With looks like that, he could have found a nice girl a long time ago, had some kids, and started his own family. “I don’t.”
“Good.”
I could feel his hard dick underneath me. It came out of nowhere, and it seemed like his dick was hard all the time. It didn’t matter if we were fighting or if we just screwed fifteen minutes ago. He always seemed ready for the next round. “How is your dick hard like that all the time?”
He grinned like I just paid him a compliment. “If it
bothers you, make it go away.”
I rolled my eyes.
“My dick really likes you, baby. You’re his favorite.”
“I’m so flattered…”
He chuckled. “You should be. He’s a lot pickier than you realize.”
“When you’re with other women, you wear a condom, right?” Because if he went bareback with everyone else, I was in for some serious trouble.
“That’s a personal question…”
“And I have every right to ask. Wouldn’t you want me to use a condom?”
“You won’t be sleeping with anyone else.”
“Uh, what?” I asked. “You said I could see other men.”
“Yeah, you can,” he said. “But you won’t. No other guy will live up to me, so you’ll just be disappointed. And if you do, you’ll just think of me the entire time. Trust me.”
“I’ve had good sex before.”
He shook his head. “Not like you do with me.”
I smacked his chest. “Do you ever get sick of being so fucking cocky?”
“Nope.”
I smacked him again.
“I like it when you hit me, so keep it up.”
I knew he was being serious because his cock got a little harder, so I stopped. “I really hate you.”
“You hate me because I’m right.”
He was right. I’d never been with a man who made me come apart like that. I’d never been with a man who took me so confidently. His dick was huge, and while it hurt sometimes, it felt so damn good. He knew how to kiss a woman, how to handle a woman. He made me feel so good that the idea of being with someone else really did seem pointless. I liked handsome and confident men, but even my best partner wouldn’t compare to Bones. He gave me the best sex of my life. “You never answered my question.”
“Baby, I always wear a condom. I’ve never fucked a woman skin-to-skin before. Just you.”
“What?” I asked in surprise. “Really?”
“Yeah. I’ve never been with the same woman long enough to justify it. But with you, it’s a different story.”