“Excuse me, ma’am,” the maître d’ says politely, gesturing to the sign on the door—a sign that I ignored. “We’re closed.”
“Then you should have locked up,” I murmur without taking my eyes off the room.
The men at the tables closest to me seem to have taken another look at me, several of them now wearing bemused expressions.
I read their thoughts, which are disappointingly predictable but also useful, as they look me up and down, gazes sliding across my black bodysuit before fixating on the whip attached to my belt.
“Who ordered entertainment?” one man asks with a loud chuckle and a lewd grin.
“Your boss,” I reply, my voice a husky purr as I play into their misconception. “Butyou’llhave to wait your turn.”
My assertion has the effect I want. The men relax and remove their hands from their weapons, returning to their meals and drinks.
Even as I addressed the room, my focus… myrealfocus… is on the hellhound sitting alone at the table at the back of the room.
While a part of me continues to play into the role the other men think I’m here to perform, sashaying my way across the room, weaving between tables, taking hold of my whip and running it playfully across their shoulders as they undress me with their eyes…
My hearts stops, then thunders in my chest as the hellhound rises to his feet, holding my full attention.
Striker Draven.
16. PEYTON PRICE
Striker’s amber eyes are as startling as the first time I saw them, but his black-as-night hair is much shorter than before, neatly trimmed.
He wears a navy suit that has clearly been tailored to his build, but what’s surprising is how comfortable he looks in it. After the sweatpants and torn shirts at Bloodwing, I never imagined Striker Draven as the kind of man who would relax in a collared shirt.
Each step takes me closer to him.
His thoughts and emotions are wide open to me. Painfully so. The whole tumult of them. Feelings that I didn’t expect from him.
I expected surprise, maybe even alarm. I expected pain, possibly even betrayal, since I left him to die back at the Academy.
There is none of that, only emotions so pure and true and strong that they nearly drive me to my knees.
Joy.
Pure joy floods the gap between us, radiating out from him. His heart has lifted with gut-wrenching happiness at seeing me.
Hope.
Warm and enveloping like a rising sun in spring. Like a promise of everything he wanted to give me and that he hopes I’ve found.
Peace.
Because he can see that I’m okay. More than okay. I’m in control. I’m living and breathing and moving with purpose, and that’s what he wants for me.
He wants me to be as I am.
He wants me to know my power.
He wants me to be safe and loved.
I read all of this in his thoughts, and I have to force myself to keep moving toward him, even though I fear it will hurt me as nothing has hurt me since I became a full Fury.
Suddenly, he wishes he was prepared to see me because he would have primed his heart and mind for this moment.
Now, he’s berating himself for the flood of emotions he must be inflicting on me.
