Chapter 8: Whiskey

SEVASTIAN

Celestina has no idea how close I am to snapping. She pushes every button, tests every boundary, and for what? To get a rise out of me? She doesn’t understand, can’t possibly understand the level of chaos she’s toying with.

When I heard she got into that damn car, the one sent by our enemy, I thought I’d lose my mind. 

My chest still feels tight, the phantom echo of the panic I swallowed down the second I realized what she’d done. 

Does she even realize the danger she put herself in? The danger she put me in?

Someone might have orchestrated the situation. 

And seeing how Celestina was calm, it only answered my suspicion.

I’m not stupid, my mind instantly jumps to her father, Carson. The man  who has been circling me like a vulture for years, looking for his chance to strike. 

If it’s the other mafia, they’d have used her against me. Tied her up, spilled her blood, made her a message to me. 

I grit my teeth, the sharp ache grounding me in the moment. It had to be her father. 

He’s the only one cunning enough to pull off a move like this. Only he would know how to weaponize her, how to make me question my instincts, my control.

Still, he made a mistake, a crucial one. The assassin who delivered my wife here knew too much.

Too many details about my house, about my routines, about where Celestina would be sent. 

Those aren’t facts you learn from the street,  those are whispered in confidence, passed down from someone in the inner circle.

Which means… There's a rat in my operation.

The thought makes my blood boil. 

Trust is a fragile thing in this world, and mine is already a paper-thin. But the idea that someone in my house, my family, could betray me like this? 

It’s infuriating and personal.

My jaw tightens as I catch that infuriating smirk on Celestina's face, her defiance practically begging for a reaction. 

Before I can think, my hand shoots out, wrapping around her slender neck. Not enough to hurt her, but enough to demand her attention— enough to remind her who holds the power here.

Her eyes widen for a split second, surprise flickering like a spark, but then it’s gone. 

Replaced by something darker, more challenging. 

She doesn’t fight me, doesn’t flinch. Instead, she tilts her chin up, her lips parting slightly, as if daring me to push further.

“You’ve got my attention,” she murmurs, her voice smooth and unshaken. “Now what?”

I pulled her closer, our faces mere inches apart. Her teasing, her insolence, it pushed me past my carefully maintained control.

"You need to learn how to behave," I warned, my voice low and cold. "If you want to keep breathing, that is."

Most people would tremble, beg, or at least flinch under the weight of my anger. 

But not her. Celestina’s lips curved into that same maddening smirk, her eyes glimmering with a daring edge.

"Afraid of losing your bed warmer already?" she asked mockingly, her voice soft but laced with venom.

My grip tightened instinctively, causing her to tilt her head back slightly, as if she was trying to gather some air. 

But even then, her confidence didn’t falter. 

That irritating smug smile remained as if she was enjoying this.

"You’re playing with fire," I growled, my words sharp enough to cut through steel.

"And I’m starting to like the burn," she shot back, her voice strained but still steady. "Tell me, Sevastian... are you rough in bed too?"

Her words hit me like a challenge, the audacity stirring something darker within me. 

My hand slid from her neck, trailing down to her waist, where I gripped her firmly, pulling her flush against me. 

Our bodies collided, the warmth of her against me igniting something primal.

She chuckled softly, her confidence as infuriating as ever. "Careful," she teased, tilting the wine glass in her hand. "You might make me spill this all over my dress."

My eyes flicked to the glass before locking back onto hers, a dangerous smirk pulling at my lips. "Would it matter? I’ll tear that dress off soon enough."

A low, mocking chuckle escaped her lips. 

Her free hand lightly tracing the edge of my tie, as though this was all some amusing game to her. 

"Bold of you to assume you’ll get that far," she whispered, her words daring me to prove her wrong.

This woman was relentless, a storm I couldn’t tame, and for the first time, I realized I didn’t want to. 

Because she’s the only storm that I want to come at me.

As I stared at her, I felt her hands placed on my chest, her fingers barely exerting force, yet the deliberate slowness of her movements was enough to make me release her. 

She took a measured step back, her lips still curved in that infuriating smirk, and drained the rest of her wine in one smooth motion.

Without missing a beat, she reached for the whiskey bottle resting on the table. The amber liquid glimmered under the dim light as she poured herself another glass.

"Funny thing about whiskey," she began, her tone sweet as honey. 

Her eyes locked onto mine, glittering with mischief. "Men like you adore it, but you don’t know it tastes better when it comes from someone else."

I narrowed my eyes at her, trying to decipher the meaning behind her cryptic words. 

"What the hell does that mean?" I asked, my voice rough with curiosity and irritation.

She chuckled, an alluring sound that sent a ripple of tension through the room. 

Her tongue flicked across her lips before she took a small sip of whiskey, her gaze never leaving mine. 

Then, without warning, she reached for my collar and yanked me forward.

Her lips crashed against mine, and the taste of the whiskey hit me instantly. A mix of fire, sweetness, and something utterly intoxicating that wasn’t just the alcohol. 

The warmth of the liquid slipped into my mouth, sliding down my throat like a whispered seduction. 

I groaned softly against her lips, overwhelmed by the unexpected combination of flavors. 

When she finally pulled back, her face was just inches from mine, her breath mingling with mine.

"Whiskey tastes better from someone else’s lips," she whispered, her voice low and teasing. "Now, do you want some more?"

A grin tugged at the corner of my mouth as I met her gaze. "Bring it on," I challenged.

Her smile deepened, and without hesitation, she took another sip of whiskey, holding it in her mouth. 

This time, when her lips found mine, I was ready. I responded greedily, savoring the blend of her taste and the whiskey as my hands found their way to her waist.

Her body fit perfectly against mine as though she were made to be there. 

My hands began to trace the curve of her waist, sliding lower with every passing second. 

She kissed me deeper, her movements fluid and deliberate, and I felt the heat rising between us.

But just as I was about to claim more, my hands slipped to her backside, as if something shifted. 

My head started to spin, the room blurring at the edges. I blinked, trying to steady myself, but it was no use.

"What the—" I muttered, my voice slurring as my legs gave out beneath me.

The last thing I saw before darkness overtook me was her standing above me, her wicked smile firmly in place.