"What was I supposed to do? Get stuck in a sweat lodge with a woman who drills me for hours and not find out who she is?" he relays.
I arch an eyebrow. "And what did you find?"
His voice drops to gravel. "You're fake online. They don't have anything on the real you."
My thighs clench. Damn him.
A hidden red light for a camera installed near his top cabinet blinks.
They want results.
I exhale and sit back. "The Underworld requires more than wordplay. More than flirting. More than defiance."
His jaw ticks. "Then tell me what the hell loyalty means in the Underworld because I sure as hell know what it means in the real world."
I smile. "It means you give me something you don't want to give."
He tilts his head. "Like what?"
"Your weapons," I reply.
He laughs. Loudly. "Oh, sweetheart. I'll give you my tongue before I hand over my weapons."
"You'll give me both if I want them." My pulse skyrockets.
Shit. Why did I say that?
He stares at me with a look that says he's torn between throwing me against a wall and throwing me out of his house.
"Why?" he demands. "Why do you need my weapons?"
"Because you're unpredictable. Dangerous. And not in a good way."
He grunts, "There's a good way to be dangerous?"
"Yes."
Something dark flashes in his eyes. Slowly, like each movement costs him, Brax reaches down his side and pulls a knife from the waistband of his sweats. He places it on the table between us.
Damnit! He could have killed me!
"Good boy. Now go get the rest," I order.
He glares. "You've got to be kidding me."
"No. And if you leave anything out, they'll know and tomorrow will never come," I warn, pointing at the red light.
He slowly turns his head and mutters, "Fuck."
"All of it," I reiterate.
He scowls, but gets up. One by one, he piles weapons on the table from all over his house. Every time he acts like that's it, I give him a look and he grumbles, then brings more.
Finally, he reaches behind him, pulls a gun from the chair cushion, and slams it down.
My brows rise. "Done?"
"No."
