Page 65 of Pride: Kneel Before None

All my anger bled out of me, giving way to an immediate sense of panic.

“Tighe! We left him there. We have to go back!” My fingers struggled with the buckle that locked me in place.

The trembling attempts to undo the straps stopped when Ace clamped his hand down over mine.

“Your brother will be fine. Wassagor only feeds on prisoners when they try to make a jailbreak.” He took a thoughtful pause before he added a morbid alternative, “Or they lose all hope and pitch themselves into his den. In that case, he takes his time consuming pieces of them.”

Not quite a total reassurance, but enough to find myself relaxing back into my seat one breath at a time.

Taking note of my receding panic, Ace’s hand squeezed mine before withdrawing.

“Wassagor is a Vorarian,” he explained. “A gluttonous beast that thrives on those who enter his domain tasting of freedom and unrestrained power.”

A dry smirk curved over his mouth. “Inmates lack both, making them as appealing as a plate of pickled broccoli left to rot in the sun.”

The imagery twisted my stomach, banishing any appetite that may have lingered.

Arriving back at Sevenfold, Ace offered a hand as I stepped out of the helicopter onto the rooftop. Waiting for us, Monica looked drab and devoid of any personality as ever.

She wore the same type of depressing pantsuit as when I met her on my first day inside Ace’s casino. It reeked of decaying polyester in a shade of tan that screamed color wheel reject. And nobody wanted to get me started on the heels.

“Mr. Reynard, you have a visitor downstairs,” she announced without breaking stride to follow alongside us toward the roof’s access door.

“Who is it?” Ace’s hand locked onto mine, refusing to allow me to stray.

Monica’s response was clipped, efficiency masquerading as competence. “Wouldn’t give a name. Insisted on an audience.”

Lifting his free hand, Ace waved it dismissively. “I don’t take meetings with people off the street on a whim. Tell whoever it is to come back after making an appointment.”

“I’m afraid that offer has already been offered and declined,” she responded.

Releasing my hand, Ace directed his focus back to me. “Eve, return to the penthouse⁠—”

“Actually, sir, he requested to see you both.”

Her statement brought Ace to an abrupt stop.

“Both of us,” he repeated.

She confirmed with a single curt nod.

A vision tore through my mind’s eye unbidden.

Flashes of a conference room, familiar eyes that reminded me of watered-down milk, and a presence that made every bit of my skin crawl so deep that it felt like ants were marching along my bones.

My breath hitched, my free hand automatically grasping onto Ace’s arm to steady myself.

“Rip. He’s downstairs,” I exhaled. “One of the conference rooms.”

“Executive Conference Hall Omega, to be exact,” Monica added.

When Ace’s eyes met mine, the mossy depths were already swirling with streaks of hellfire. Rip’s presence seemed to stir up his possessive claim on me before we even got inside the building.

His stare lingered, assessing something. It could have been conjuring a strategy for handling the unexpected visitor. Or perhaps it wasn’t that at all. He could have been fantasizing about where he wanted to put his dick again.

My eyes dropped down to the fly of his tailored slacks. A bulge, but definitely not full mast. And let’s be honest, if his blood had rushed south thinking of me, that zipper wouldn’t have survived.

“Eyes up here, Little Spade.” The faint edge of a knowing grin slipped free of his otherwise careful composure.