Rex had pulled out of her what felt like hours ago, but time had blurred into thick and sluggish motion.She didn’t even flinch when his arms slid beneath her.
Lifting her carefully, he cradled her against his chest like a precious and fragile gem.Her head lolled against his shoulder with her lips parted in unconscious exhaustion.He should have felt triumphant.She had taken them both so beautifully, had been perfect—
But all he felt was the hollow ache in his ribs.His pulse stuttered when her fingers twitched against his neck, as if even in sleep, she sought him out.
“Fuck.”
The walk to his private suite was a blur.The stairs stretched endlessly, the distant thump of music was a mocking reminder of where they were—whereshedidn’t belong.Not like this.Not withhim.
He laid her on his bed, the sheets cool against his flushed skin.She sighed, a soft, broken sound, and immediately curled onto her side, drawing her knees up like she was trying to make herself small.Rex’s throat tightened.
He fetched a warm cloth, wrung it out, and knelt beside her.Her skin was still damp with sweat, her nipples reddened and swollen with teeth marks and rough handling.He cleaned her slowly, carefully wiping away the evidence of what they’d done.Her thighs.The curve of her hip.The hollow of her throat where her pulse fluttered like a trapped bird.
“Mine.”The word was a blade in his gut.Because she wasn’t.She was leaving.And the universe—that cruel, fucking bastard—had let him taste her this way, this fucking awesome way, anyway.
With unsteady breath, Rex set the cloth aside and gently soothed her entire body with arnica gel.He pressed his forehead to her shoulder.She murmured something in her sleep, and as her fingers brushed his wrist, for a single, selfish moment, he let himself imagine it—that she was his.That she’d stay.That he wasn’t the most selfish jerk in the universe and that the world wasn’t a goddamn joke.
Clenching his jaw as he stood back as his mind raged with regret.His voice sounded forlorn in the dim room as he covered her with a blanket.
“Some things just aren’t meant to be.My life and yours are too far apart, and we can never be, Angel.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Dominic Drake
9PM, Monday, The Consortiumunderground operation hub at DD’s private mansion, Shell Beach, New Orleans...
The rich aroma of Kenyan coffee filled Dominic Drake’s private office in a stark contrast to the acrid stench of fear that usually permeated his workspace.The Italian machine purred like a content cat.He watched the dark liquid drip into his bone-white Meissen cup, remembering the first time Viktor had introduced him to proper coffee—right after making him watch the “lesson” delivered to a failed operative.
The memory was as clear as yesterday.Viktor, casually wiping blood from his signet ring with a silk handkerchief, had turned to the trembling twenty-two-year-old Dominic and said in his characteristic thick Russian accent, “Come, ??? ??????? (my boy).Let me show you how civilized men celebrate success.”The screams from the basement had still echoed in Dominic’s ears as Viktor taught him about coffee origins, brewing temperatures, and the art of savoring life’s finest offerings.
Eighteen years later, Dominic still preferred Kenyan AA grade beans, just like his mentor.He checked his Patek Philippe at thoughts of Viktor kept running through his mind.Nine p.m.in New Orleans meant four a.m.in Switzerland, where the old monster should be asleep, but he wouldn’t be surprised if he was holding court in his Lake Geneva mansion instead.The former Bratva enforcer had transformed himself into a refined European businessman, though the brutality that had earned him the nickname “The Butcher of St.Petersburg” still lurked beneath his bespoke suits.
Dominic’s laptop hummed to life.He watched with brooding eyes as its encrypted boot sequence ran through multiple security protocols.His fingers drummed impatiently on the mahogany desk.A monstrosity that had been a gift from Viktor after Dominic’s first successfulcleanupoperation.That day had taught him the true meaning of power.The target had begged, offered millions, even promised his daughter’s hand in marriage.Dominic had simply smiled and carried out Viktor’s instructions.The message had been clear—mercy was weakness, and The Consortium didn’t tolerate weakness.
The banking interface finally appeared.Dominic’s stomach clenched.Zero balances.Fucking zeros across every account.
