Free Bad Apple (Part 1) by Kristina Weaver Page A

called earlier when you were comatose and let me know that the place is overrun. If you wish to salvage your dreams, you will have to relocate,” he cuts in impatiently.
    I know the place he’s talking about. Heck, I looked at it first and every day since I’ve opened shop. It’s great, but totally out of my price range. Add to that the fact that I have all my money tied up in a building I have only just paid off and I am screwed.
    The news deflates my sails and I fall to the side of the bed with a moan. What the hell has happened to my life? A week ago I was riding high on family, success, and thoughts of spending my time with a bottle of wine and ice cream.
    I need a pity party right now. One that’ll blow my socks off.
    What I get instead is a man who refuses to listen as he sweeps me up and carries me to the bathroom, his lips twitching when I complain about putting his back out.
    “Angel, you are a feather compared to some of the things I lifted when I worked construction to earn starting capital. And your body is fucking sexy, never doubt that. Or should I demonstrate again how hard you make me?”
    “No, we need to talk—” I start, squeaking when he just lowers his mouth to mine and kisses me hard, his wet, hot tongue spearing into my mouth without pause—licking, sucking, and devouring till I melt all over him and cling to his neck, my nails digging into his scalp.
    “Talk is so overrated, angel. Now we take a bath to relieve the ache, and then I take you to fix things, huh?”
    I find myself unable to argue when he lowers me to the tiled floor in my tiny bathroom and flips the water on, his lazy stretch afterward making my eyes zero in on his erection.
    God, the man is huge. And sexy with that V at his hips. I allow myself a look now that I’ve been outvoted, and I want to cream myself when my eyes hit his chest and the ink on his left pec and shoulder.
    “Oh my.”
    It’s the Reaper, a ghastly, deadly looking visage all in black staring back at me, but somehow I don’t feel disgusted or threatened by the thing. Instead I feel rampant for the feel of that chest and his strength over me again.
    But first I want to see it all. So I do. I lean down and take in his ink and shake my head at the lettering beneath the scythe, the words written in Russian.
    “What does it say?”
    “The dead don’t lie,” he says heavily, his chest rising and falling heavily as I trail my fingers up and around his shoulder, my body going around his back.
    This one is a beauty, something I didn’t even note before in the kitchen thanks to his ass. It’s a portrait stretching from his shoulder blades to just above his hips.
    What shocks me about it is not the detail, though God knows whoever did this tattoo is a true artist, and I’m also not shocked that the face staring back at me is of a hauntingly beautiful woman. I am shocked to see a name and two dates printed beneath.
    Jesus.
    “Who’s Mina?” I ask even though I know the answer is not going to be good.
    His back is tense, the muscles jerking away when I raise a hand to touch them, wanting for some morbid reason to lay my hands on something I shouldn’t.
    This space, this part of him, belongs to her. I know it like I know that I am his now, no matter what I say or do or feel.
    The rejection of my touch hurts, and I pull my hand back quickly, swallowing the tears I feel rushing forth.
    “The past,” he says stonily before whipping the water off and facing me. “Come, Irina. I need to care for you or you will hurt later.”
    Hurt? I think I hurt now and I can’t even say why.
    The sheet comes loose with one tug of his hands and I’m turned towards the bath without a word before I hear his gasp and those hands clamp down on my hips to keep me still.
    “What the fuck is this?!”
    I twist uncomfortably and wince at the black bruise riding low on my ribs and I tear up just remembering how it got there. It hurts that Luka would have pushed me away, and hurts