"Do that again," he growled, "and I'll fuck you right here in front of anyone who happens to pass by."
"Promise?" I rolled again. Harder. The friction hit exactly where I needed it, and a sound tore out of my throat. It was raw and needy, and nothing like the controlled woman I performed for everyone else.
"Raven." My name was a warning. His hips jerked up, grinding against me, and the pressure sent a current straight through my core. "Not here. Not—fuck—not like this."
"Why not?"
"Because I want to hear every sound you make." His mouth dragged down my throat, teeth scraping, tongue soothing the sting. "And if I start here, I won't stop. And we're fifty feet from Viktor and a restaurant full of soldiers who'd put a bullet in both of us for this."
The mention of Viktor should have cooled me down, but it didn't. If anything, the risk made me grind harder against him, chasing the danger, chasing the heat, chasing the feeling of being this close to the edge of something irreversible.
He groaned—a low, guttural sound, vibrating against my throat—and then his hands were on my waist, lifting me off him like I weighed nothing and setting me back on the bench.
Cold air rushed in around me, and I nearly whimpered at the loss.
"Tomorrow night," he said. His breathing was wrecked, coming in harsh pulls through his mouth. "After your set. I'll wait for you."
"You said that before and didn't show."
"I'll show." His forehead pressed against mine and his thighs spread wide around mine as he squatted before me. His thumb traced my swollen bottom lip. "I promise. And when I do—" He paused. Let the silence fill with everything he wasn't saying. "Wear something you don't mind losing."
The words hit me low, a pulse of heat that clenched tight and didn't let go.
He stood. I heard his knees crack, heard him hiss and could only assume he was adjusting himself.
I stood. Smoothed my dress. Lifted my chin. "Tomorrow," I repeated.
"Tomorrow."
He'd asked for twenty-four hours. I'd given them to him.
But when those hours were up, I was going to burn every last wall he'd built between us to the ground.
One way or another, Milo was going to break.
And he was going to break forme.
CHAPTER 10
MILO
Something was wrong.
I felt it the way you feel the barometric pressure drop before a storm.
I was parked two blocks from The Silver Table with my engine off, watching Raven's bus pull up to the curb. She stepped off first, snapping her cane out and lifting her chin as she began to walk confidently toward the restaurant. The city parted around her like water around a stone. The evening crowd didn't slow her. Nothing slowed her.
But tonight, I wasn't watching her.
I was watching the man who was watching her.
He was across the street, half a block behind. Gray hoodie, hands in his pockets, moving when she moved, stopping when she stopped. Matching her pace with the kind of disciplined patience that said this wasn't his first time following someone.
He wasn't one of Viktor's. I knew Viktor's people. This guy was alone. Unaffiliated. A predator who picked targets the way a hyena picked off the limping gazelle at the back of the herd.
And he'd been studying her.
I sat very still in my car and watched him watch her cross the intersection. He knew the timing of the crosswalk. He knew which direction she turned. He knew how far she had to walk. I knew because of how he adjusted his pace to gradually catch up to her, which told me he'd done this before. Maybe not today, but enough times that he knew her routine almost as well as I did.
