Page 82 of Storm

I stare at her for a long moment, this woman, my enemy, offering herself to me like a gift.

“You want to wait for me?” I ask roughly.

“Yes. Please.”

I grab a marker from the drawer, black and thick-tipped. I kneel beside the table and draw an arrow on her thigh pointing to her pussy. Then another pointing to her ass. Then I trace a circle around her parted lips.

“If you’re a good girl and wait for me exactly like this,” I say, my voice low and rough, “I’m going to push inside this sweet pussy first.” I tap the arrow. “Fuck you while I spank this perfect ass.” Another tap. “Then I’m going to wreck this tight little asshole.” Tap. “And then you’re going to suck me clean after I glaze this pretty face.”

Her breathing is ragged, her eyes glassy.

“Do you understand?”

Her voice is barely a whisper. “My answer to you is always yes.”

The words hit me like a physical blow.

Always yes.

I stand abruptly, pocketing the marker, my heart doing something arrhythmic in my chest.

“I’ll be back soon,” I mutter, and walk out before I do something stupid like kiss her.

As I head to my car, I can’t stop hearing it.

My answer to you is always yes.

What does that fucking mean? And what the fuck have I gotten myself into?

30

Vin

I’m halfway to my car when someone grabs me from behind.

My instinct kicks in: elbow back, pivot, reach for my gun. But there’s already a blade pressed against my throat and two more sets of hands pinning my arms as they put a bag over my head. Professional and organized, this isn’t street-level bullshit.

“Easy, Demonio.” The voice is familiar, but I can’t place it. “Just need a word with my boys here.”

They shove me into the back of a car and drive for awhile, my zip-tied wrists in my lap. We don’t drive far, just a few minutes away. I try to map it in my head, but I get turned around. When we get wherever we’re going, they get out but leave me in the car.

“The fuck are you fucking doing?” I yell when the car door slams.

No one answers. I hear them talking but can’t make out what they’re saying. Minutes pass. Then at least an hour. Then more. I’m losing my shit thinking about Sophie, and I kick the back ofthe car seat in front of me with both feet until I hear the bolts snap.

“Hey hey! You in a rush to get your ass beat, Demonio?” Someone rips the door open and pulls me out, rips off my blindfold and throws me against a rusted dumpster. The metal creaks under the impact, the stench of garbage thick.

When I blink the stars from my vision, I am staring at Rocco’s smug fucking face.

Not Aurelio’s men. Not the Irish or the Albanians making a move. Rocco, Sophie’s worthless piece of shit ex-employee with delusions of adequacy.

Rage detonates through me like a grenade.

“You’ve got 10 seconds to explain why you’re not bleeding out in this alley,” I snarl, testing the zip ties. Tight. Whoever trained these assholes knew what they were doing.

Rocco crouches in front of me, a sneer twisting his mouth. “Relax, Demonio. This isn’t about you.”

“Then what the fuck is it about?” I strain against the restraints, plastic biting into my wrists. Behind Rocco, two guys stand guard, all muscle, no brains, judging by their disinterested expressions. Hired help.