I watched as she wrapped herself in that annoying fucking aloof exterior that she walked around with like armour. I would allow this bullshit, but only until we entered the property, because she was going to tell me what the fuck was going on. I clenched and unclenched my fists as we marched back home. It felt like a death march, the kind men of old did when they were preparing for battle and knew some of them would not live to see the next sunrise. I exhaled violently, anger building beneath the surface of my skin.
I held my anger in, watching her cross her arms over her chest, her eyes glued to the floor as she positioned one precise foot in front of the other. I wanted to rage. I wanted to rip that Voodoo bitch limb from limb, but I suspected it wasn’t that simple. She shouldered past me as I held the wrought iron gate open for her. That act of insolence had my rage bubbling over, and I allowed her to walk through the front door of the house, and then, in a couple of long strides, I was through the doorway, standing right next to her.
I pinned her against the wall, wrapping my hand around her neck, her vanilla scent intoxicating. My body awakened with need, but that was not what this was about. Her usually neatly chignon had come undone and I noticed strands of her blonde hair sticking to the sweat on her neck. Her breathing sped up to match mine, and she began shaking. I knew she wasn’t shaking with fear, but with anger, and my dick took notice.
“What the fuck was that about at Café Du Monde,” I growled.
She pushed against me, but I refused to budge - I refused to give her any leeway to scurry away and hide herself from my world. I already had Arlo barking his own orders of getting the Witch to concoct some spell to take out Sergei. His argument - if we couldn’t do it through traditional means, then the task fell on to her. Something about that didn’t sit right with me, but I couldn’t act on it - not when we all had our own role to play to keep the wheel that was the Bratva turning.
“Let me up,” she hissed.
“That depends, Bambi,” I allowed disdain to drip into my voice, “are you going to hide from us.”
She scowled up at me, and I felt her rage rise up to meet my own. And yet, still I pressed.
“Imagine my fucking surprise when I leave you alone for a few measly minutes only to return to find you having coffee with that Voodoo bitch.”
Even as I spoke those words I knew they weren’t true, but I needed to be certain. There was only so many times we could survive being sold out and fucked over - I had already lost my parents to that bullshit and I’d be damned if I’d allow us to walk into another trap.
Her face distorted in rage. Good, she should be angry, because I was furious. I wanted to fucking punch something. I knew she was colluding with the enemy - not after she did that Blood Magick shit, but her response in this moment was the test. It was the tell all. My cock hardened at her ire, but I had to pull my head in the game as I watched the rise and fall of her chest, her breasts almost brushing against me with each inhale she took on account of how close I was pressed against her.
“She approached me and threatened me,” her voice was low and vicious, and the beast within me growled in feral delight at the possibility of having found someone to truly play with. But those feelings faded into the background as the very fact that she was threatened rose to the surface, making my rage explode as I pushed back, shoving against the wall before swearing as I exhaled.
Corinne sank into the concrete, shock and anger masking her expression.
“What did she say?” I demanded.
She glared at me before she deigned to reply. I supposed I deserved that, but she wouldn’t be getting an apology from me.
“When you decide to speak to me like a proper individual, you can find me in the kitchen.”
She did not storm away. She did not rage. She walked away slowly - her pace measured and controlled. And that fucking did it for me. I either needed to taste her or she needed to fuck right off and get the hell out of my house. She challenged me at every turn, and it was infuriating.
I walked into the kitchen to find her staring at a fucking teapot she had laid out on the counter, an array of tea boxes lay open next to it as she squinted at them, perplexed, no doubt trying to figure out her next move. I didn’t think she had ever made a pot of tea in her life, and I was tempted to silently linger in the doorway just to see what she would do. But time to linger wasn’t a luxury we possessed.
“You can stop looming there if you’re done being an asshole,” she spoke softly.
Fuck.
“I don’t loom,” I growled, as I walked to the counter, grabbing the teapot from her, and readying the actual tea.
She would make a terrible wife. In fact, my babooshka always spoke about the need for a woman to be able to manage the kitchen if she intended on keeping a happy marriage. And why the fuck I was placing her in a ‘wife’ category was beyond me. Where the fuck were these thoughts coming from?
I glanced up to find her smirking at me, tension slowly easing from her shoulders. Thankfully, she stepped back, allowing me to prepare the tea as I blew out, “You have to tell me what happened - what the fuck is going on.”
She remained silent, picking through her words and phrases carefully before finally speaking. That action only made my stomach further clench in trepidation. This was going to be bad. Fucking bad.
"We can't take out Sergei," her voice was flat, emotionless, and I got the impression that she was disappointed that we couldn't just kill the fucker.
If she was disappointed that we couldn’t take out Sergei, it was nowhere near the rage I felt. But, I had suspected as much. Nothing about Magick and the workings thereof seemed straightforward or easy. I supposed if it was then everyone could be a Witch.
Who knew that spending time with us would turn her into a murderous little Witch. I doubted she had ever killed anyone, not when she was still a virgin - innocent of that - and other cardinal sins. But then being an innocent was not a necessity when eliminating someone - Father Joseph was a prime example of that.
"That's a fucking a problem," I ground out and she looked a little sad at that small truth. "Arlo wanted me to talk to you about pushing harder against Sergei and their Witch -"
"Her name is Lauren," she interrupted me.
I glared at her, "I'm not sure her name fucking matters," I spat, annoyed at the interruption, the insolence of it all.