“Fuck the goodbyes.” He spun them around and began marching toward the room’s nearest exit. “We’ll see them all again soon enough.”
Alice laughed even as she tried arguing that they couldn’t leave. “We can’t just?—”
“It’s our wedding, princess. We can do whatever the hell we want.”
She glanced back from over his shoulder at the small crowd. They were laughing and talking. Dancing and singing. Even her father wasn’t paying any attention to the fact that they were walking away.
A smile spread across her face, deciding Slade was right. This was the perfect time for their departure. And the sooner she and Slade checked into their honeymoon suite downtown…
She grabbed the side of his rugged face and brought his mouth to hers. His steps faltered, but he never came close to letting her go.
He’ll never let me fall.
Those words were true in both their literal and figurative forms. And as he broke away from the kiss to look down into her eyes, she knew her life had truly begun.
“I love you, Alice. Or Shadow. Or whatever other name you want me to call you.”
“Yours.” She stared back at her future. “I just want you to call me yours.”
* * *
One week later…
Coulter Morgan lookedboth ways before he crossed the street. As he walked toward the art gallery’s entrance, he gave his surroundings a quick, assessing glance. Tonight was the night shit was going to come together, and he couldn’t wait for it to be over.
After months of planning, surveilling—and endless conversations with the pretentious assholes he’s just as soon shoot than see again—he was finally going to get his meet-and-greet with the man his agency has been after for years.
He glanced down at the overpriced watch he’d been given specifically for this occasion. Like his designer suit and tie…and hell, even his uncomfortable as shit shoes…the watch was a prop to help pull off the dangerous one-man show.
The role he was playing was the same one he’d been performing for the past several weeks. A rich, entitled, American heir willing to spend millions on his own personal sex slave.
Cases like this were the absolute worst. Their targets the sickest of the sick. Twisted freaks who got their rocks off by forcing themselves onto the woman they’d kidnapped and, oftentimes, beaten.
That was the very sort of man Coulter was on his way to meet. The kind of man he himself had been pretending to be.
I can’t wait to rid the world of this sick son of a bitch.
He stepped up to the guarded door, toward the well-dressed man standing guard. The very large, very serious-looking man stared him up and down.
“Good evening.” Coulter flashed the man his best rich man smile.
“Invitation.” The man grumbled.
Apparently, that was the only greeting he’d receive.
“Of course.” He pulled out the fancy envelope he’d talked his way into receiving.
The massive wall of muscle studied the invite more carefully than one would normally expect.
Coulter was ready for the close inspection, however, because he knew what tonight was really about. This wasn’t simply an innocent gathering of appreciation for the showcased artist’s craft, but rather a meeting of the rich and twisted designed for the gallery’s real reason for existing.
The bouncer returned the thick cardstock and opened the door. As Coulter stepped inside, he wondered if the icy reception was because the other man disapproved of his boss’s underhanded dealings, or if the big guy showed the same sunny disposition to everyone who crossed his path.
Can’t blame the guy for thinking I’m a disgusting pig. I feel like one, and I’m only pretending.
How these so-called men lived with themselves, he’d never know. Which was why he had been working so damn hard to weasel his way into their nauseating circle.
Coulter glanced around, doing his best to fit in with the uber rich crowd. He could practically smell the money rolling off these perverts’ backs, and he couldn’t wait to be done with this job so he could finally move onto the next.
