King of Wrath (Kings of Sin #1) by Ana Huang

“I’ve been busy.”

“Hmm.” The sound resonated with knowing. “Or perhaps you’re warming up to your bride-to-be? I heard you two disappeared for quite a while at Valhalla’s New York gala.”

My teeth clenched. Why was everyone so obsessed with my feelings toward her? “What we do in our private time is none of your business.”

“Considering I’m actively surveilling her father on your request, it’s partly my business.” Ice clinked in the background. “Be careful, Dante. You can either have Vivian or you can have her father’s head on a platter—figuratively speaking, of course. You can’t have both.”

The shower stopped running, followed by a beat of silence and the opening creak of the bathroom door.

“I’m well aware. Keep looking.” I hung up right as Vivian stepped out in a cloud of steam and sweet-smelling fragrance.

Every muscle tensed.

Objectively, there was nothing indecent about her silk shorts and top. It was the same outfit she’d worn in the kitchen during our snack night, only in black instead of pink.

Unobjectively, it should be outlawed. All that exposed skin couldn’t be good for her. Never mind the fact we were in tropical Bali; the outfit was a hypothermia case waiting to happen.

“Who were you talking to?” Vivian loosened her hair from its bun and ran her fingers through the dark strands. They cascaded down her back, begging me to wrap my fist around them and see if they were as soft as they looked.

My jaw muscles flexed. “Business associate.”

I’d stayed up late the past three nights so I wouldn’t have to share the room with Vivian while we were both awake. She was always asleep when I came in, and I was always gone when she woke up.

We didn’t have that option tonight.

Apparently, Vivian wasn’t in the mood for card games with my family either, so we were stuck in the same room. Awake. Half dressed. Together.

Fuck my life.

“On Thanksgiving?” Vivian smoothed body lotion over her arms, oblivious to my torture.

I should’ve stayed in the damn living room.

“Money doesn’t rest.” I turned my back to her and pulled my shirt over my head. The air conditioning was on full blast, but I was burning up.

I tossed the shirt over the arm of a nearby chair and faced her again only to find her staring at me with wide eyes.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting ready for bed.” I cocked an eyebrow at her visible horror. “I sleep hot, mia cara. You wouldn’t want me to roast to death overnight, would you?”

“Don’t be dramatic,” she muttered, setting her lotion back on the dresser. “You’re a grown man. One night of sleeping with your clothes on won’t kill you.”

Vivian’s eyes dropped to my bare torso before she quickly looked away, her cheeks red.

A knowing smirk worked its way onto my mouth, but it quickly faded when we turned off the lights and climbed into bed, making sure to stay as far apart as possible.

It wasn’t enough.

The California king was large enough to host a small orgy, but Vivian was still too close. Hell, I could be sleeping in the bathtub with the door closed and she’d still be too close.

Her scent stole into my lungs, blurring the usually crisp edges of my logic and reasoning, and her presence burned into my side like an open flame. The murmurs of our breaths overlapped in a heavy, hypnotic rhythm.

It was half past eleven. I could reasonably wake up at five.

Six and a half hours. I could do this.

I stared at the ceiling, my jaw tight, while Vivian turned and tossed. Every dip of the mattress reminded me she was there.

Half-naked, close enough to touch, and smelling like an apple orchard after a morning rainstorm.

I didn’t even like apples.

“Stop it,” I ground out. “Neither of us will get any sleep if you insist on moving around like that all night.”

“I can’t help it. My brain is…” She blew out a breath. “I can’t sleep.”

“Try.” The sooner she fell asleep, the sooner I could relax.

Relatively speaking.

“What great advice,” she said. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of that. You should start a Dear Dante column in the local newspaper.”

“Were you born with a smart mouth, or did your parents buy it for you after their first million?”

Vivian let out a sardonic breath. “If my parents had their way, I wouldn’t say anything except yes, of course, and I understand.”

A twinge of regret softened my aggravation.

“Most parents want obedient children.” Except mine, who don’t want children at all.

“Hmm."

It struck me that Vivian knew more about my family dynamics than I did hers, which was ironic considering she was the more open one in our relationship. I rarely discussed my parents, both because the gossip mills churned overtime and because my relationship with them was nobody’s business, but there was something about Vivian that pulled reluctant admissions and long-buried secrets out of me.

“Are your parents upset we’re not celebrating Thanksgiving with them?” I asked.

“No. We’re not big on the holiday.”

Of course. I knew that.

More silence.

Moonlight spilled through the curtains and splashed liquid silver across our sheets. The A/C hummed in the corner, a quiet companion to the thunder rumbling in the distance. The sense of an impending rainstorm snuck past the windows and soaked the air.