"What position is that?" I ask, leaning an inch closer. I shouldn't. I should be cautious of her. I'm smart enough to know she's a trap wearing perfume.
So why does my blood feel like it's fizzing in my veins? It's like someone poured gasoline through my bloodstream and handed her the match.
Her breath drags in then out, hitting mine.
Something primal sparks, creating an infuriating pull. She's dangerous, and I need to get out of her world, not step farther into it. But it's like all the lessons the O'Malleys taught me about discipline simmer in the heat.
End this before it begins,I order myself.
The fire flickers in her eyes, turning the hazel molten.
Any remaining sense disappears. I blurt out, "You look at me like you already own me."
She replies in a low voice, "And you look at me like you want to."
My wet T-shirt suddenly feels like it's part of my skin. The fizzling in my veins turns to full-on explosions, and every warning bell blares between my ears.
Silence stretches, and the suffocating air wraps around my ribs and throat while her gaze remains steady but turns more curious. It's the same way she studied me in front of the crowd.
It only makes her more dangerous.
She breaks the silence. "What should I call you?"
"I would think you already know my name," I admit.
Her jaw twitches.
"Ah. So you're not the head honcho of whatever sadistic cesspool I stepped into?" I taunt.
Her eyes turn to slits. She advises, "I suggest you change your tone to one of respect regarding the Underworld."
The Underworld?
I drag the bead of sweat over her FINZIA tattoo, letting my finger linger on the top of her cleavage. "Or what?"
She gives me a look that sends a chill down my spine.
I step back, needing fresh air, but there is none. It wouldn't surprise me if I were actually in the real Devil's den. I wait another moment, then inform, "Brax. And you?"
"Short for Braxton?" she asks.
"No. Just Brax."
"What kind of name is Brax?"
I cross my arms over my chest, wishing my shirt wasn't drenched. I demand, "And your name is?"
She waits, as if she's contemplating whether telling me will get her killed or let her live.
I scoff. "Seriously?"
"Valentina," rolls off her tongue.
I step so close that her curls brush my forearm, and her perfume swirls between us. I lower my voice. "You run things?"
Her tongue slowly licks her lips. She answers, "I manage what I'm instructed to control."
I grunt. "So you're in charge until the boss is ready to step back in and play?"
