Blood Ties by Lana Sky

Chapter Four

This time, I don’t read a single page of the diary.

Maybe I’m just not brave enough. Or the avoidance is more an act of defiance than anything else. As much as he pretends not to, Domino badly wants me to help him decipher whatever mysteries his sister left behind. He’s desperate enough to hope that the answer to her supposed death lurks within those pages.

Though why should I help him? My own self-interest aside, trusting him would be foolish. If my father did kill Pia, and I lead him to her body, only God knows what he’d do to me in retaliation.

He’s already claimed to have killed my parents as well as Tristan.

Using the past as a predictor of the future, he’ll more than likely shoot me himself and bury me in Pia’s grave.

If there even is a grave.

A part of me still can’t buy it—which makes the revelation that Domino might be her brother even harder to stomach. He would know, wouldn’t he? If his sister were alive. She would have tried to contact him at least once within the past ten years?

Or Pia turned out to be the same old Pia, as selfish and cruel as I remember.

Though, even as a part of me desperately wants to cling to that belief, I can’t. Pia may have hated me, but she loved her brother. His name dominated the pages of that diary, from what I can recall. Her entire justification for stealing the amount of money she did was for him.

His surgery.

I have to wonder if, indirectly, Roy Pavalos paid for the transplant he inevitably received. That would make his betrayal far, far worse, I decide. To betray the man whose fortune saved your life, no matter his supposed crimes.

Only a monster would do that.

Though, to be fair, Domino doesn’t seem to have any idea as to who his sister truly was. Can I blame him? For the longest time, she had me fooled as well.

I loved her like a sister.

But to her, I was nothing but an obstacle to overcome.

The painful thought spurs me as far away from the diary as possible. Thankfully, he didn’t lock the door to the balcony. As I escape into the warm, mid-morning air, I find that Jaguar—and his posse—is gone. So is Alexi from her position on the terrace. An image of her and Domino fucking somewhere else, in some distant room of the house, sneaks into my skull, and I don’t have the strength to block it out.

I hate that I can’t predict him. Despite five years of knowledge regarding the man he used to be, I’m forced to admit that I know nothing about who he is.

Apart from what turns him on, of course. I know that a smart mouth—literally and figuratively—gets him going. But nowhere near as much as the sight of blood can.

My blood.

Here, in the warm, humid air far from prying eyes, there’s nothing to stop me from reliving those sordid moments. Over and over again.

His touch. His pleasured moans rippling through my eardrum. His breath, hot on my throat. His taste.

His chest.

I keep seeing the stark, surgical line that denotes a past I can’t deny. Whether or not he truly is Navid Inglecias, he’s suffered. Suffering that he seems to blame my father for—and, indirectly, me. It certainly puts an ironic twist on my past attraction to him, anyway.

To crave a man without a heart… His own, at least. It’s why his body can fuck me despite the hatred he harbors inside.

And yet, he’s the only man to truly make me feel…anything remotely close to pleasure during sex.

How goddamn sad is that?

* * *

Ines comes hours later,leaving a tray of food for me on the bed.

I ignore it, barely paying it a glance on my way into the bathroom. I strip his shirt, leaving it carelessly over the threshold, and approach the now empty shower stall.

It’s an exercise in clicking through various options on the digital control panel before I manage to get the water running. Safe within this glass cocoon, I lean against the granite wall and force myself to think.

If my father did kill Pia all those years ago, where could she be?

In our backyard? It’s an obvious guess, but one I can easily rule out—my mother would have long since found her during all of the many renovations she’s had done to the property in the last decade. I’m sure during the tennis court reno, it might have gotten back to us if the workers stumbled upon the body of a fifteen-year-old girl.

It isn’t long, however, before my thoughts turn away from Pia to the man who claims to be her long-lost older brother.

Because he’s here.

His scent packs a physical punch despite the overall stealth of his entrance. He watches me for a while, from beyond this realm of glass. I can see him from the corner of my eye, a shadow over the gray color scheme.

Eventually, he grows bored of merely watching. Without bothering to disguise his entrance, he slides open the glass door—slowly enough for the cool air to battle with the wall of steam I’ve let build up.

I don’t turn to see if he’s naked or not. When I sense him claim the bench across from me, I move to a different corner of the stall, finding a hook where he left the washcloth from this morning.

He never let me clean myself, I realize. Even now, I can feel the remnants of him, stubbornly clinging to my innermost, sensitive parts. Snatching the rag, I find a bar of scented soap and work it into a lather. Then I take my time, scrubbing every last inch of my body.

I’m methodical, so intent on my work that I almost forget he’s watching.

“You think you can ignore me?” he asks, his voice heavy, though I don’t detect his usual anger.

A good fucking session could do that to a man, leaving him languid and relaxed after.

Enough!I shake my head to clear it and run the rag between my breasts, then over my stomach—all without paying him a single glance.

“I like you quiet, Ada-Maria,” he continues, still sounding as if he’s across the stall. He hasn’t moved.

Yet.

“I don’t think I like you bitter, though. Your lips aren’t meant to be pursed so tightly. The expression ages you.”

I scoff, giving him the attention he wants. “Don’t tell me you’re partial to my father’s tastes. How did you put it? Young, dumb, blond—”

“I’m not talking about any other woman, am I?” he counters in a tone that makes me grip my washcloth tighter. “I’m talking about you.”

“Me,” I echo hoarsely. “The woman you hate. The woman you hurt and have brutalized. The woman who hates you.”

“You couldn’t fuck a man you hated the way you fuck me.”

I feel my mouth fall open at his bluntness. The worst part? He sounds confident—too confident.

As if he’s studied how I fuck in general, well enough to make an educated inference.

“I’m good at faking it, Domino,” I counter. Finally, I gather the nerve to meet his gaze from over my shoulder.

There is no sly, mocking smile on his face. He’s dead serious.

“That you are,” he agrees, seated on the bench, leaning back against the wall. He’s naked, I realize, my cheeks flaming. The water pelts him, glistening off his skin and erasing any traces of sweat or exertion that he might have sported beforehand. “You are a damn good faker, at least for a man who doesn’t know any fucking better.”

I shiver, turning away to face the wall as I continue to wash myself. “You seem sure of that.”

“Because I am,” he replies. “Your boyfriend videotaped nearly every time he fucked in that penthouse of his—you, along with the many other women he was toying with. If it makes you feel any better, you were by far the sexiest. The bastard came faster with you than any other.”

I stiffen, horrified by how callously he can reveal such intimate acts. Is he telling the truth? Only God knows. Tristan, the bastard, wasn’t known for his faithful nature. I’d suspected his affair with Alexi early on, but am I surprised if she wasn’t the only one?

But therein lies another secret revealed by Domino’s admission—you were by far the sexiest. Is he including Alexi in that assessment?

God, I shouldn’t care…

“The second I heard you moan for real, I realized how damn good of an actress you are,” he continues, his voice loud and booming. Gone is the gruff undertone he took on with Jaguar in earshot. He’s shameless now, uncaring of who might overhear.

Perhaps, because he tired out Alexi well enough to know she’s dead to the world.

“I am a good actress,” I agree, dropping the washcloth. “So good I made you think you actually got me off, Domino—”

“Your fake moans are pretty,” he continues as if I never spoke. “The real ones? Goddamn, Ada-Maria. You could drive a man insane with those cries. Whether you’re in pain or in pleasure, it’s the same damn tune.”

My next breath sticks in my chest as my heart hammers like mad. Is he joking? I can’t tell, and this time I’m not inclined to look for myself.

“Enjoy your shower.” I start for the door, scrambling to slide it open.

“Tristan,” he practically snarls the name, “never went down on you—at least not in any of the recordings. He never spread those legs and tasted that pussy for himself. I used to imagine how you’d taste.”

The intensity of his voice takes my breath away. I hate that he almost sounds genuine, like he truly did just that—dwell on the taste of me.

“How did Alexi taste?” I demand, turning to face him.

He raises an eyebrow. “How do you think she tasted? Like fucking roses. Why don’t you ask her?”

I flinch, gritting my teeth, desperate to disguise just how deeply that taunt cuts. So deep it hurts, outshining my general aches and pains. I hate the thought of him lying with her. Kissing her.

Tasting her with the same tongue I used to fantasize about tasting me.

Spotting my rag on the floor, I cross over to it, leaving the shower door partially ajar. Grabbing it, I turn to face him. “You want to know what I taste like, Domino?” My voice is a low, husky purr.

But I’m struck dumb by his reaction. He sits forward, his head cocked, eyes obscured by strands of black hair plastered to his forehead by the shower spray. They slice his face into slivers, each one more unreadable than the last.

His eyes track every step I take toward him, blazing and burning.

“Here—” I throw the rag at him so hard it rebounds off his chest and lands at his feet. “That’s the only taste of me you’ll ever get. Savor it.”

My words ring hollow, of course. He’s too strong to overpower on my own—and there’s nothing stopping him from lurching to his feet and pinning me down, taking from me whatever he damn well pleases.

To my shock, he grabs the rag and brings it to his mouth. Slowly, he extends his tongue, dragging it across a section of the rag in a way that makes my cheeks flame, my body heating. Licking his lips, he sits back again.

“Like milk and honey,” he says raggedly.

And I sway. He’s tasting the flavor of the soap I used. Not me. Getting ahold of myself, I once again stagger for the exit.

“That shitty camera of his never showed your back in detail,” he says with a certainty that makes me stop short, my horror returning in full. “I couldn’t see your scars from the footage. Tell me who hurt you.”

“Why? So you can get pointers?” I toss back, eyeing the sliver of the bathroom lurking beyond this fragile pane of glass. Freedom. All I have to do is take the necessary few steps to reach it.

One…

“No,” he says so coldly I’m frozen again. “So, I can kill them.”

It’s a strange boast to come from a man who hates me so. He whips me. Collars me. Lies to me.

Then confesses that he mused about what I taste like and vows to kill the man he thinks hurt me.

Though, it’s an empty threat.

We both know who whipped me and what happened to him.

“Luckily for you, he’s already dead, Domino,” I rasp, taking another step. I’m close enough to grip the edge of the sliding glass door—and I do, for dear life, rattling it on the metal rail keeping it in place.

The sound of him rising to his feet is loud enough to overpower that delicate clinging noise. There’s the thud of the rag hitting the ground a second time, followed by the patter of water dripping from his body, and his slow, heavy footsteps as he advances toward me.

All I can do is watch as he grips the door above where my hand is, easily wrenching it shut. I barely manage to pull my fingers out of the way.

“I want you to tell me why he did it,” he demands, his breath fanning the space between my shoulder blades, though I don’t dare turn around to see him there behind me. “And you will, Ada-Maria. You’ll tell me every fucking detail. Why? I’ll do what I know you’ve been dreaming about since the day I first met you in your father’s office.”

“Leave?” I croak hopefully.

He laughs. At the same time, he takes his hand from the door and uses it to grip my chin, whirling me around to face him. The glass rattles again as he pins me against the cool surface.

I have no choice but to see his face—to see the eyes ruthlessly raking over my body as if he truly does own it. Every inch, long before he had me brought here.

“I’ll taste you,” he declares, his voice rippling with lust. “And I’ll have you wishing that I put a bullet in that bastard’s brain sooner.”

Tristan? Or my father?

He doesn’t clarify, and I’m too unnerved to ask. I don’t want to know the answer.

“I’d rather die,” I hiss, “than feel any part of you on me anywhere!”

“You should be dead.” He traces my jawline with the pad of his thumb, roughly as if he’s trying to memorize every inch by feel alone. When he nears my ear, he leans in, bringing his mouth against the lobe. “If it weren’t for me, you would be. That bullet was meant for you.”