Page 5 of Niccolaio Andretti (The Five Syndicates)
The overwhelming darkness in his eyes suits the darkness of his expression. And from the prominent display of cheekbones to his sharp jawline and smooth, expressionless features, I wonder briefly if he’s even real.
If he’s a statue—detached and hardened like stone.
Or perhaps he never smiles.
Then again, who am I to judge?
Smiling is rare for me these days, too.
After looking at him in all of his icy, perfect glory, I’m suddenly overcome with the desire to fix my hair and dress and whatever else I can do to make myself more presentable. The urge takes me by surprise, which of course, is only met with even more anger.
I’ve never been like this before.
Angry? Of course.
Calculated? Always.
But lustful? Never.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve always gone after one type of man—wealthy, powerful and usually older. I’m certain this guy isn’t old, and I’m unsure if he’s wealthy or powerful. Yet, here I am, reacting to the mere sight of this handsome stranger.
And I hate it.
I harden my eyes, forci
ng a steely glare into them as I strengthen my resolve again.
Lust serves me no purpose.
I’m here to secure a better future for me and my sister, and everything in me is telling me that lusting after this man—this gorgeous, beautiful, indifferent man—will only get in the way.
And I won’t let that happen.
Chapter Three
You will not be punished
for your anger. You will be
punished by your anger.
Buddha
It's one of those things you can just tell—the sky is blue, puppies are stupidly cute, and this woman is a raging bitch. With flashing green eyes, vivid red hair, and a curvy figure, she’s also every man’s wet dream.
But I’ll let you in on a little secret—Prince Charming doesn’t want to marry a raging bitch.
And judging by the fire in her eyes, the same fire that matches her red hot hair and the insane amount of sass she’s been dealing to my stoned-out-of-their-minds security technicians, she has a bone to pick.
With me.
I look at her, hiding my unease like a seasoned professional. She’s a new entity, and new is never good. It occurs to me that this, whatever this is, can be a trap. An elaborate ruse connected to the fucking bounty on my head.
I take a moment to feed on my paranoia, allowing it to fester, build and consume me. After all, it’s what has kept me alive this long.
And against ridiculous odds, too.
I hide my suspicion well behind a familiar mask of indifference, and instead, I casually arch my brow as if to say, “Well?”
