“Aren’t you?” she asked. “You’re the one locking me in my room every night.”
Pain flickered across his face so quickly she almost missed it. “You should hate me,” he said.
“I do,” she hissed. That was another lie, and they both heard it as soon as the words left her mouth. The air between them shifted, and Lark’s breath caught when Dante stepped toward her again—slow and careful, like he was approaching something explosive. His gaze dropped to her mouth, and everything inside her screamed to move. Instead, she stayed perfectly still.
“You need to stop looking at me like that,” he murmured.
“Like what?” she whispered.
“Like you want me to save you,” he said. Lark swallowed hard because maybe she did. Maybe that was the most dangerous part of all, because she was starting to think Dante needed saving too.
Dante
Dante had killed men for less than wanting Rafael Santos’s daughter, and that was the problem. He knew exactly what kind of monsters existed in the world because he worked for one, and lately, every time he looked at Lark, he saw himself becoming a monster too.
The storage room door clicked shut behind him as he stepped back into the hallway alone. His pulse was still hammering from being pressed against her in that tiny dark room, breathing her in, while trying not to drag her against him and kiss her until neither of them remembered their own names.
Jesus Christ. He rubbed a hand over his face and headed downstairs before anyone noticed he’d been gone too long. The second he walked into Santos’s office, Rafael looked up from behind his desk with his cold brown eyes. They were the kind of men who had watched other men die and felt nothing.
“Where were you?” Santos asked.
“Checking the east hallway,” he lied. Dante had gotten good at lying, but he had to. The stranger from earlier still sat across from Santos with one ankle resting over his knee. He seemed calm and relaxed, but Dante could tell that he was dangerous as hell. The man’s gaze slid to Dante slowly, assessing him incomplete silence. Dante fought the urge to reach for the gun at his back because something about this guy screamed trained killer. He wasn’t cartel muscle or mafia. He was worse.
“You didn’t mention having a watchdog,” the stranger said casually.
Santos smirked. “Dante’s loyal.” If only the bastard knew how wrong he was. Dante kept his face blank even as rage burned through him. He’d spent the last three years secretly trying to figure out where Santos was hiding his sister. That was why he woke up every morning wondering if Sofia was still alive. It was why he was one bad day away from putting a bullet in Rafael Santos’s skull.
“Lark in her room?” Santos asked.
Dante’s spine locked instantly. “Yeah.” It was another lie, and the stranger seemed to notice. He could tell by the way the guy slightly tilted his head while studying him. He saw the interest in the stranger’s eyes.
Santos leaned back in his chair. “Good, I don’t want her wandering around while we have guests.” Guests—Dante nearly laughed at his boss calling the guy sitting across from him a guest. Only Rafael Santos would call a psychopath in a tailored suit a guest.
“What exactly are you offering?” the stranger asked.
Santos folded his hands together. “Access.”
“To your daughter?” the man asked. Dante’s blood ran cold, and every muscle in his body tightened violently.
Santos smiled slowly. “Access to my daughter will be expensive. Lark is very valuable.”
The stranger’s expression never changed. “Women aren’t currency to me.”
“No?” Santos asked. “That’s disappointing. I was told you had expensive tastes.”
Something dark flickered behind the stranger’s eyes, then vanished. “I came for information,” he said flatly. “Not entertainment.”
Santos chuckled. “Everything has a price.” Dante forced himself to stand still while fury clawed through him. Lark had been right—her father was planning something. He wanted to sell her, trade her, or use her in some way, and the sick bastard was discussing it like he did business over drinks. Dante wanted to kill him, not for the first time.
The stranger stood smoothly from his chair. “I’ll think about your offer.”
“You do that,” Santos said.
As the man walked past Dante, he paused just long enough to murmur, “You should work on your tells.” Then he walked out. Dante didn’t move until the front doors shut behind him. Fuck. Who the hell was that?
“You look tense,” Santos said lazily.
Dante glanced toward him carefully. “Just tired.”
