Viktor Blacktop Bride
I turned toward his voice and he was leaning in the doorway, tall and cold, muscled arms crossed over his chest and for once he wore a shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing his tattoos.
“You should be doing homework or work on your knife skills,” he said, pushing off the wall and striding toward us.
Tristan jutted his chin out, but he didn’t protest. “Bye, Aria,” he muttered before he walked out of the French doors.
Viktor propped his hip up against the piano as he always did, and my eyes took in the way his pants accentuated his muscled legs, the way his shirt clung to his torso. “And am I being nice to you?”
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