Dominic finds his manners and picks his jaw up off the floor before saying, “Yes, congratulations to you both and Dead Man’s Hand is also here for you anytime.”
Melinda gives me a questioning look but doesn’t ask for an explanation in front of them.I take her hand from Kostya’s.“Why don’t we go find a table.I’m sure you two came here for a reason.”
The four of us walk up to the VIP section and from across the room Alma instructs a bartender to come take our drink orders.Once they’re set down and we’ve all taken a sip, Dominic says, “Caleb mentioned you purchased this place.That’s why we came.We need a new location.”
Heat crawls the back of my neck.“No.”I don’t raise my voice.I don’t need to.“You aren’t bringing her into that fight.”
Kostya lifts a shoulder.“I told you, Dom.”
“It’s my war,” I say.“Not hers.”
Melinda’s fingers find my sleeve.“I can help, Cassius,” she says, not knowing what she’s agreeing to.I look at her.She doesn’t blink.The part of me that kneels for her and the part that guts men alive both answer at once.“Conditions.”
Kostya and Dominic nod like they expected nothing less.
“No hand-offs anywhere near the customers.Only daytime or after closing.You have to give Melinda time to prep Alma and the other staff who may see the exchanges.If heat comes within two blocks, you bail.Cops or Spider, get the fuck away from here.You don’t use my wife’s name.Ever.”
“Melinda?”Dominic waits for her permission.He’s smarter than I give him credit for.
She doesn’t know what they’re asking her, so I lean over and press my mouth to her ear knowing that even if Dom and Kostya hear me, they’ll both pretend they didn’t.“They want to useMirageto move trafficked women.They help them escape.”
“If any of them want a job here, want to stay, I’ll instruct Alma to find a place for them,” Melinda says, not looking my way.She’s making a call on her own and I couldn’t be prouder.
“Loop Adrian in,” I say.“He’ll need to add you to the camera feeds.Melinda is on those as well.”I turn to her.“Would you like us to handle the exchange information or do you want to do that?”I hate bringing her into this.I never would’ve chosen this for her.I wantedMirageto be her place, and within hours it’s already tied to my world.She wants to help.That’s what I tell myself, but she has no real clue what that means.What she’ll see.I won’t disrespect her by using her club and cutting her out of the decisions, but I wish these two never would’ve walked in here tonight.I make a mental note to rip Caleb’s ass for telling them about this place.
“If they’re passing through, no reason for me to know that.Alma and you all can handle that.I only need to be informed if they’ll be working here.”She finally meets my eyes.“I’d feel better if Adrian or Mavik runs background on the ones who decide to stay.They may have family or something they’d like to find, but it’s an added layer of protection for the staff already here if we find anything sketchy.”
“You have your waypoint,” I say to the men.“You fuck around with my wife or her rules, and you’ll realize you’ve never seen the worst of me.”
“Understood,” Dominic and Kostya say together.
“Anyone working this route better also understand.I will not ask for permission to end any one of them if they disrespect her,” I say.Melinda places a hand on my knee, squeezing lightly.There are many alliances that work immunity into their treaties.The Accord has no such obligation.I can kill any of Kostya’s or Dominic’s men at any time.Not for nothing, unfortunately, but if I have cause, they won’t retaliate.And unlike my brothers, Iwillkill their men if the occasion calls for it.Melinda is an occasion that will always call for it and both these bastards now know it.
This is too much for her to take on.She must be overwhelmed.She’s a new owner of a busy club and now it’s also a front for the Accord.She doesn’t look worried, and I think that scares me more than if she were freaking out.
nineteen
Cassius has beenferal since the first time I texted him, but since he gave meMiragefour days ago he’s gone feral-er.His gaze is sharper, hungrier.He stalks me in reflections and receipts.In Logan’s murmured phone check-ins.In Atlas’s casual “she’s inside.”In phones lit with timestamps that land where my brain likes them best.9:03.7:07.11:17.Odd numbers that trace my movements through the house, my office, the garages and elevators.Odd soothes the static.When an 8:12 slips through, it makes me itch.Cassius must notice me wait three additional minutes before moving, because I never see another even stamp pop up on anyone’s device.Adrian manufacturing time, I’m sure.They never lower their voices when I enter a room.They all leave their screens faceup.No one pretends I don’t see.But, when does protection become curation?When does curation become control?
That evening, he waits as I get ready for the first Christmas party Ashenheart Defense Agency has ever hosted.He doesn’t disturb me until I’m zipped and lipsticked and arguing with my hair in the mirror.He doesn’t knock.There’s only the click of our door and the weight of him filling the room.
“There’s something I want to give you before the chaos,” he says.He hates suits, but tonight he wears one for me.Black on black on black, and there’s no way a sexier man exists.His collar is open, exposing his throat.His tie hangs loose.My black dress is a perfect match for him, my red heels the only pop of color between us.
I let myself look, really look.The cut of his jacket over his shoulders.The open V at his throat.The hint of ink peeking when the fabric shifts.He watches me watch him, mouth tilting like he knows I’m undressing him in my head.
“If I take this suit off,” he says, voice low and rough, “I’m not putting it back on.”
“It doesn’t have to come all the way off,” I murmur, stepping into his space.I catch his loosened tie and use it to draw him down so my lips can ghost his throat.“Say yes.”
His eyes go darker.“For you, the answer is always yes.”
I turn him until his back meets the edge of the dresser, slide my palms under his lapels, open him up without removing a thing.He smells like cedar and rain.I kiss down the exposed line of his throat, the hard notch of his sternum, the thin black silk of his shirt warming under my mouth.
“Melinda,” he warns, already breathing heavier.I sink between his shoes, the hem of my dress whispering against my knees.His hand finds my hair, his grip tightening slowly.His knuckles brush my cheekbone, plastic, not skin.His hand is wrapped.
I still.“What happened?”
He exhales a laugh that’s almost a groan.“Part of your Christmas present.”With his free hand, he peels back the tape and plastic enough to show me.Fresh black ink banded across bone:
