He knew I’d complied with his ridiculous edict, and he knew that it’d been tortuous. I suspect he knew because he’d been starving himself too, which only made my suffering more enticing. And the awareness that I couldn’t do something made it the only thing I could think about. Maybe that’s a character flaw, but my still-wet panties suggest I’m a slut without a single fuck to give about my character. I’m too intrigued by what he has in store to dare defy him.
When he swaggered away, Stella looked like she might pass out. Her cheeks were flushed, and even her strawberry-blonde hair was disheveled. “He could make an accounting sheet sound filthy.”
I slanted my head in consideration, as if I wasn’t dreaming of disrobing and crawling after the man with a plea to end this absurd orgasm test of his. “Really? That’s what does it for ya?”
The rest of my day was grueling, trying to handle my translation job and covertly gather intel for my mission, all while my body was jonesing for a fix.
But three hours ago, I repaid the torture. Axel was walking with Bernard past L’ange Noire, and I was coming back from alate lunch with Mercy, Tessa, and Amy at another restaurant. He glanced up and scrutinized me with that unruffled bravado of his, but I knew better. I knew that even if he wasn’t suffering to the same extent as I was, he was still suffering.
“Miss West,” he called, cupping two fingers in a gesture to beckon me closer. “Could you join us for a moment?”
It was a golden opportunity that I couldn’t pass up.
“Yes, sir,” I replied with a coy airiness before I intentionally dropped my phone on the marble floor. It clattered and flew, and I was certain he understood what I was doing.
He’d told me the next time he ordered me to come to him that I would crawl, so …
I didn’t crawl. Not exactly. I was in the populated corridor of the hotel, where the restaurants and shops attracted members, and many were breezing past us, so that would’ve been weird. But I did fall to my knees and shimmy toward my phone, sliding it forward, as if I were fumbling with picking it up, thereby moving on my hands and knees. While I was down there, on all fours, I peered up at him beneath the fringe of my lashes, my lips parted, the slit of my skirt riding obscenely high to showcase nearly my entire thigh, the V of my blouse billowing to reveal the swell of my breasts, spilling out of a lacy burgundy bra.
He strode toward me, crouching down to retrieve the phone and helping me stand. The lascivious zeal radiating from him was electrifying. In part because I craved every jolt I could get—shock therapy was instantly appealing—but also because there was a jealous possessiveness peeking through his even-tempered armor. It felt like checkmate.
In that brief interaction, I realized something about myself. I enjoyed submitting to him, relinquishing everything into his capable hands, but I also coveted the potency of the submissive position, the rush of an unexpected win, of being the one on my knees but still holding the power.
Once we were on our feet, he narrowed his eyes, like an amused disciplinarian. “Cute,” he deadpanned. “I suppose we should resume this at another time.”
I took my phone from him and tucked it inside my purse, flicking my full attention back to his handsome face, so full of stoicism, tenderness, and rough masculinity that it nearly stole my breath. “You know best, Mr. Noire. Good thingscometo those who wait.”
He tried to muffle it, but I heard his stifled laugh as I strutted away.
If that were all, if it were only Axel, I’d still be driven to claw my way out of whatever this conversation is about to condemn me to, but yesterday morning only heightened that.
An hour and a half after Axel left me naked and needy in his bed, I got dressed and ambled out to the penthouse kitchen, hoping to disappear through the pantry, into Tessa and Maddox’s apartment, and back to my suite. But everyone other than the king himself was there, and they refused to let me leave without pancakes and coffee and banter that knotted my heart. It was mixed-up idioms and music trivia, jovial barbs and hilarious tales of La Lune Noire mayhem, lively discussions about what their days held and Remy showing off card tricks while sitting on my lap. And not once did any of them act as if I were an outsider.
It was perfect and painful and likely only a pipe dream, but I gripped it all the same.
Family is the bullet you never see coming.
“Can you be more specific?” I ask my father in Ukrainian. “Did my intel about the media informant not pan out?”
I’m strolling around one of the resort pools that’s empty because temperatures dipped into the low sixties today and the skies are murky with a threat of spilling autumn showers. Even so, I’m not taking a chance on anyone overhearing me. And whoknows everything this bracelet Bernard stuck on me is capable of reporting? In other circumstances, I’d alert my father. But with the current climate of this mission, I think that would simply bolt my coffin. Axel’s team can still translate, but even with AI assistance, Ukrainian is more challenging than many other languages.
An uncharacteristic sharp breath floats from him. “That’s in the works.”
“So …” I leave it dangling there, at a loss for why he isn’t filling me in on whatever the problem seems to be.
This couldn’t be about me killing Shep. Bernard assured me they’d keep it quiet for as long as possible, and even if they hadn’t, my father wouldn’t chastise me for offing the assassin hired to kill me. Whether he was the one who hired him or not, he’d commend me. He appreciates prowess, no matter who’s wielding it. Even a combatant. But whatever the root of this distress, Tripp isn’t on this call, so I have to assume that’s because having any part of my demise would destroy him.
“I’m close to getting into the Prohibition Ball,” I offer into the void, curling a strand of hair around my index finger, mesmerized by how quickly the tip is purple and deadened. “Employees work it—not necessarily the executive staff, which is why it’s not a done deal, but I’ve made some connections, and I think it’s looking good. That will give me unmatched access to the members. Isn’t that what the client wants?”
“You don’t know what he did,” he snarls. It’s wrathful but distant, like he’s piecing together a puzzle.
Chlorine and the earthy scent of impending rain sear my nostrils as a lump balls in my throat, adrenaline surging through my veins. My entire body is in fight-or-flight mode. And while I might be able to mask my tentativeness from the average person, there is no doubt that my father will pick up on it.
“What who did?”
“Tell me it’s for the mission, Zara. Tell me this isn’t a replay of ten years ago. That you haven’t fucked up everything I’ve been working for because you’ve fallen …”
A repeat of ten years ago. Of Keller. Of falling for the wrong man?
