She whips her head toward her mother, Katherine, clearly searching for backup in her outrage. But Katherine is barely containing a laugh, very much entertained.
Sloane turns back to me and if looks could kill, I’d be ash in the fireplace.
“You’re going to pay for this,” she mutters, sweet venom that makes my skin tingle.
She folds the bodysuit with angry, jerky movements and shoves it back into the box like it’s burning her.
Then she huffs and jabs a finger toward a badly wrapped present on the table.
“Open yours, idiot.”
“With pleasure.”
I grab my gift.
The paper is wrinkled, the ribbon crooked. Classic Sloane—her way of telling me I’m not worth the effort.
I tear it open. Lift the lid.
And burst out laughing.
I pull out a riding crop.
Small. Black leather.
Glossy. Handle perfectly shaped to be gripped with malicious intent.
There’s a little tag hanging from it. I read it out loud, because everyone needs to hear this:
“To the worst client Cupid’s Agency has ever had.
Maybe this will help you learn some discipline.”
The room explodes.
Sebastian nearly chokes on his wine. Cam slaps his thigh, laughing way too hard.
I look at Sloane.
She’s watching me with a look of pure triumph, arms crossed, chin high.
She’s gorgeous.
And absolutely lethal.
“What’s wrong, Princess…” I murmur, using the nickname on purpose just to feel her bristle, “…you could’ve just told me you wanted to play games with me.”
I waggle my brows and snap the crop lightly in the air.
She doesn’t flinch. Not even an inch.
“Oh, don’t worry,” she purrs. “I know exactly what to do with it. Right up your—”
“Children,” Katherine cuts in, in that elegant but firm mom-voice. “Please. It’s Thanksgiving.”
Sloane crosses her arms even tighter, which just pushes her breasts up under that burgundy silk top.
“Exactly,” she says. “Be thankful I didn’t get you the matching handcuffs.”
