“Blaidd Prothero,” I said—but when she gave me a blank look, my jaw clenched tight.
Today, her curls sat messy and wild around her face—a sharp contradiction to the professional black suit she wore. Then again, I was a monster in a suit. Her full lips were perfectly formed, possibly the most sensationally curved and pouted I’d ever seen. The financial records confirmed they were natural. Those high, proud cheekbones would look better crushed between my foot and the floor.
I almost licked my lips—but caught myself just in time.
Instead, I placed my finger into her plate and dragged it through the food until the white porcelain shone, separating the juices from the beef. I licked my finger, watching as the horror finally settled in.
The spice. The herbs. The lingering taste of meat.
It wasn’t a substitute for her. It was that bow-lipped mouth I wanted to maul.
I held out my hand, and my guard placed a napkin into my palm.
“Delicious,” I rumbled, just as Fenrir hummed his approval.
She watched me wipe my finger, and I felt her heartbeat spike—lips parting, dark brown eyes nearly turning black. Her back straightened, and any vestige of surprise or fear vanished.
Pure, unadulterated deviousness radiated from her. An insolent half-smile curved her lips.
“You seem hungry,” she purred, pushing her leftover food toward me.
This wasn’t a version of her that existed on paper—or anywhere in the data I possessed.
Her gaze slid over my suit, paused at my Rolex, lingered on my cufflinks, then my hand.
That’s right. Recognise my wealth and power, you filthy animal.
“What can I do for you, Mr Plothero?” she asked, glancing down at her nails.
Not nonchalant.
Bored.
Of me.
I commanded goddamn boardrooms with a single glance.
“Prothero,” I bit out, lifting my glass.
Don't let her scent get to you, Fenrir warned—as if I hadn’t been reciting that mantra all morning.
I watched the moment my name landed. Recognition flickered, and her eyes snapped to mine.
The game had only just begun.
Chapter 10
Lielit
His presence was as large as his body. It was claustrophobic in a way I’d never experienced before. The man was cold as ice, danger seeping from every pore of his arrogant frame. His eyes flicked between green and blue—both shades reflecting cruelty. Dark brown hair was swept back high from his face, the sides neatly shaved and blended into the top.
The suit, the cufflinks, the Rolex all screamed obscenely wealthy cunt. If that wasn’t enough, it was the sheer entitlement—the audacity to interrupt my business lunch and finger his way through my damned meal.
“Prothero,” he snapped, taking a long sip of his scotch—or possibly bourbon.
Every single thing about this man made my insides revolt. Then his name cut through my anger.
Blaidd Prothero.
