Page 17 of Fatality

I lost money tonight, lost the race, and fucked up my own car.

I need to put that resentment somewhere, or the next fucker I cross paths with is getting his face introduced to a wall.

I keep walking—or stalking, depending on who’s watching.

My comm buzzes in my back pocket. I already know who it is. I don’t even need to check to know it’s Lira.

That little cunt’s probably missing my cock.

I sigh and change direction.

Now I know exactly where I'm going, how this ends, and who's taking the hit for my mood.

After twenty long minutes of walking and taking the Ascender—one of those secure elevators that haul people up into the Upper Layers of the city—I finally arrive at Lira's apartment.

I press my palm against the biometric pad since she added my handprint to the system. The door slides open, and I step inside.

The neon lighting hits me like a fucking assault, I squint my eyes to prevent her from blinding me.

For fuck's sake.

“Lira,” I lift a hand in front of my eyes to stop the harsh light from burning my retinas. “Turn that fucking mood killer off before I go blind and fuck you up anyway—though not in the way your needy little cunt would like.”

“Oh my God, I'm sorry, Evren.” Lira says, panic sharpening her voice.

I hear her heels clicking across the marble floor as she hurries away.

The lighting dims. I lower my hand and kick off my shoes.

“You didn't answer my texts,” she adds, crossing her arms beneath her augmented breasts and pushing out her overfilled bottom lip in a pout. “So I didn't know if you were actually coming.”

I look past her, letting my gaze sweep across the apartment.

Marble polished so clean it throws my reflection back at me, gold crawling over every surface.

Pink velvet, glass and crystal.

Too much of everything.

Just like Lira—expensive, loud, and desperate to prove she's worth looking at.

Then my gaze drifts back to her, and that spoiled little brat act pisses me off even more than losing the race did.

“I don't owe you shit, sweetheart.” I take a slow step toward her. “Whether I come or not is my decision, so get on your knees, and do what you're actually good at.”

“Evren!” She snaps, utterly offended. “You can't talk to me like I’m your whore—”

I tune her out like she doesn't exist, she can yap all she wants.

I reach for my belt, the metallic clink of the buckle echoing through her vast apartment like a gunshot, and pull it free from the loops of my jeans.

I hold it in the air for a second before wrapping it around her slender throat and yanking her forward, cutting off her protest.

She gasps and stumbles toward me, her legs moving before her brain catches up.

“I can,” I bend down slowly toward her. She’s so small I have to practically fold in half. “Because you are my whore. Now, act like it.”

I growl, my breath hot against her pale cheek.