Kian
She squares her shoulders as though she’s gearing up for another fight. I drop the material from my split eyebrow. I can feel that the bleeding has stopped, but I know from experience that there’s going to be bruising around my forehead even after the cut heals up.
Gotta hand it to her—the girl struck well.
“That was my favorite t-shirt,” she snaps.
I frown. “Huh?”
She removes the sweatshirt and flings it to the floor in the same way that I discarded the bloody piece of fabric I’d stolen from her t-shirt. Then she looks down at the scraggly edges of what is now a clumsy crop top.
I note the taught line of her abs, but I move my gaze up pointedly. The last thing I need is another distraction.
“This.” She gestures to the bottom of the t-shirt. “This was my favorite t-shirt.”
“Looks like shit. Old as hell.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” she demands, sounding genuinely annoyed. “It’s still my favorite.”
“I apologize,” I say. “Is that better?”
“No.”
Her eyes flash and she twitches like she wants to hit me. She doesn’t, though.
Good girl. You’re learning fast.
“Why did you want those cops to see the rest of the house?” I ask quietly.
Her jaw tightens stubbornly as she crosses her arms over her chest. Of course, that pulls up her t-shirt a little higher, putting her impressively toned stomach on full display.
“I like showing off the house,” she replies sarcastically. “I’m a real Suzie Homemaker, y’know?”
“I’m the wrong fucking person to play with,” I warn her.
Her expression doesn’t lack fear. But she’s no coward, either. The crescent moon scar on her right cheek has turned an almost opaque silver.
“Really?” she asks. “Because you look like you like to play.”
I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean. Is she making an accusation? There’s a slightly seductive bend to her words that give me pause.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asks, clearly uncomfortable.
“Tell me your name.”
She stiffens. Uncertainty washes over her face before she tries to tuck her emotions away beneath a veil of confidence.
“No?” I ask. “Then how about you tell me where Drago Lombardi is?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“That’s what I said,” she snaps. “He was here one minute and then…”
She trails off under my gaze and I start putting the pieces together. That’s why she wanted the cops to look around. She thought they’d find something in the kitchen.
“The blood on the kitchen floor,” I recall. “It was his.”