Avenge :Romanian Mob Chronicles(19)

“Think nothing of it,” I said, struggling mightily to keep my voice from revealing the depth to which she had shaken me.

“Thank you,” she replied as she stepped into the kitchen. Then she lifted a small tin. “I have a peace offering anyway.”

I tilted my head. “What?”

She opened the tin and rooted around in it until she retrieved a small packet. “Here we go.”

“Is that tea?”

“Yep,” she said.

“No, thanks,” I replied.

“Trust me. You’ll like it,” she said as she moved to the electric kettle and turned it on.

She looked comfortable here, though I supposed that made sense. She’d been spending more and more time here, would spend even more until the end, so she should know the place, if not seem completely at home.

And she didn’t, not quite. Perhaps it was my scrutiny, but I didn’t miss the little hitch in her movements, the unspoken awareness that told me she was watching me watching her.

But it didn’t hamper the effect, didn’t stop the fleeting thought that had me picturing her in a home, our home. I shook my head, trying to shake the thought loose. It had no place in my mind, in my life, but that didn’t keep me from wanting it. Imagining it.

She filled a mug, dunked the tea bag in it, and then set the cup on the counter. Then, finally, she looked at me.

“Do you have a last name?” she asked suddenly, eyes bright with curiosity.

“Not one that matters,” I responded.

My voice was gruff, unwelcoming, but she seemed nonplussed and continued to stand, watching me. I wanted to know what she was thinking, but I didn’t dare ask.

I also wanted to touch her, badly, stroke my fingers against what I knew would be velvet-soft skin, wanted to see her body, see her serene expression replaced with one of passion. Passion that I had put there.

“Here you go,” she said, her voice jarring me out of the spell.

My gaze was drawn to her hand, which held the cup extended. Then I looked back at her, watched the way she firmed her lips into a thin line. She took a sip of the tea and then extended the cup again.

“It’s not poisoned,” she said.

“I didn’t think…”

She smiled, her face brightening with glee. “Yes, you did, but I assure you, no poison here unless you have a serious aversion to peppermint leaves.”

Despite myself, a smile turned my lips. Then I took the cup from her, took a small sip, and then looked at her as warmth spread through my chest.

“That’s pretty good,” I said, taking another sip. “What’s in it?”

“Peppermint, some other herbs,” she said.

“And what does it do?”

She smiled again. “It’s supposed to promote relaxation and mental clarity.”

I took another sip. “Do I seem uptight, mentally unclear?”

“Uptight, perhaps. Mentally unclear, not for a second. But the tea is tasty, and it can’t hurt,” she said, smiling.

I again found myself smiling back at her, and we stood, sipping tea in an almost friendly silence.

“Good night, Anton,” she said a few moments later, and then she left as I listened to the sound of her retreating down the hall.

I set the empty cup on the counter, pondering this turn of events. Not at all how I’d expected this day to turn out, and not at all unpleasant.

The sane, suspicious side of me had called out a warning, one that had told me to keep my guard up, but the other, apparently bigger part had ignored that warning. Being with her like that, close enough that I could have touched her, close enough that I had seen the sparkle in her eyes, close enough that I’d seen the faint sheen of sweat on the brown skin on her smooth neck, all too easily letting myself pretend it was me who’d put it there, had been too good to walk away from.

And so I’d stayed, had ignored my good sense in favor of a few fleeting moments of closeness. Unacceptable, and I couldn’t let it happen again. Told myself I wouldn’t, though a quiet voice whispered that I might not be able to do otherwise.

After a few more minutes, I drifted down the hall and looked in on Christoph one last time, saw he was sleeping, saw his son passed out in the chair next to him, and then I turned to leave. Christoph was getting worse, would be gone soon, and his son was already doing his best to destroy his father’s life’s work.

Once I left the house, I headed straight for Priest’s. As I’d expected, he was awake, seemed to be waiting for me, which, if I knew him, he probably had been.

“Anton,” he said, looking at me with no expression on his face.

“Priest,” I replied, sitting when he gestured at the chair across from him.