Page 7 of Vicious Betrayal

"I know that's what you think." Her gaze drifts over me, and I see her swaying in my direction. All of her body language says she wants this just as badly as I do. "But I don't want to. And you don't want me to either."

I don't say anything to that, because anything I say is going to be some version of you're right. That's not helpful right now.

"I can ditch them," she says. The spark comes back into her eyes, lit up and mischievous. "I've done it before. My phone's a problem, but if I turn it off and we go out a different way than I came in—" She pauses, reading my face. "You know this building."

"I work here."

"Then you know another way out."

I do. I know every exit in this building; I've known them since the week before opening when I walked the layout twice and memorized it. I know the main entrance and the fire exit past the bathrooms, the service corridor behind the DJ booth, and the loading entrance at the back that opens onto the alley where my bike is parked. And I'm standing here actually thinking about using it to sneak a twenty-year-old out from under her father's security detail so I can take her home, which is exactly as reckless and stupid as it sounds.

There was a version of me, a long time ago, who was reckless and stupid, who took corners too fast on the bike and picked fights I wasn't sure I could win. That man would have gone home with her without a second thought. He would have already fucked her once and then been on his way somewhere else to do it a second time.

I don't even remember what it's like to be that man. But God, it feels like she could remind me.

Christ.

"Turn your phone off."

Her face splits into a smile. "Yeah?"

"Don't celebrate yet." I move to the door, open it an inch, and look out. The hallway's clear. "Stay behind me and don't make noise. If I stop, you stop. If I tell you to go back, you go back without argument."

She snickers. "I'm not great at without argument."

"I know." I glance back at her over my shoulder. "Try anyway."

She mimes zipping her lips, which would be more convincing if she weren't still smiling. I see her pull her phone from the small bag, power it off, and drop it back in. Good. If her father's men are tracking it, a powered-down phone is harder to pinpoint.

I ease the door open, check the corridor both ways, and move.

The service corridor runs along the back of the main floor, parallel to it, separated by the wall that houses the DJ booth and the speakers. You'd never know it was there if you didn't know to look—from the floor it just looks like a wall. From back here, the bass feels like a pressure in the chest, the vibration of it in the soles of my feet running all the way up through me. I keep my pace normal, not wanting anyone who sees me to think that something is wrong. Fortunately, no one is back here right now.

Oksana's behind me, heels quiet on the concrete. I realize, when I glance back, that she's carrying them. Her feet are bare on the cold floor, and she's not complaining about it. She catches my eye and lifts her chin with a look that says, I told you I could be quiet.

At the end of the corridor there's a door into the main floor. Left goes back toward the main bar, right goes toward the kitchen and, past that, the loading area. I go right, checking behind me without being obvious about it, scanning the narrow space for anyone who shouldn't be there.

Clear.

The kitchen serves small plates at the bar, and it's insane right now, people moving everywhere and not paying any attention to us. Oksana stays close to me, matching my pace, and her ability to do this without catching undue attention or making any of it a problem is more appealing than it should be. She's a wild, reckless little thing, sneaky and capable of slipping away, and I like it. Even focused on getting us out to the back parking lot without being seen, arousal is still thrumming through my veins.

I get us out a side door and into the crisp evening, the music fading to a throbbing hum behind us. Oksana pulls in a sharp breath, barefoot on the pavement now, but she doesn't slow down, and she doesn't complain.

My bike is parked at the far end, a black Triumph that is entirely the wrong ride for a twenty-year-old girl in a short club dress. But from the look on her face, she doesn't care.

This is my last chance to tell her no. To escort her back inside and prevent her from doing something she might regret and me from doing something that might get me in trouble. But instead, the words that come out of my mouth are, "Your place or mine?"

She smiles. "Yours."

I don't ask her why. Maybe she has roommates, or wherever she lives isn't somewhere she wants to show off. Maybe she still lives with her parents. I glance back at the club. No one has followed us.

I hand her the spare helmet from the saddlebag. She takes it and turns it over in her hands.

"You always carry a spare?" she asks teasingly.

"Habit." I pull my own on, clip it, and swing a leg over the bike. "Get on."

She does without hesitation. Some small part of me was almost hoping that would be the last straw, that she'd balk at me asking her to get on the motorcycle, especially dressed the way she is. But she just swings on behind me, the dress riding up her thighs, her bare legs against mine. Her cheek presses against the back of my shoulder.