Page 30

His thumb drags lightly along my jaw, slow, possessive. “That’s where you’re wrong. We’realwaysin a scene. You want to top from the bottom now, little thief? See if you can tame the monster?”
“No,” I murmur, leaning just enough into his hold to make my point. “I want to prove that the monster can bleed too.”
There’s a beat of silence. One breath. Two.
Then he lets go.
Steps back.
Again.
And this time,he stays there.
“Training’s done for today,” he says, voice rougher than usual. “Go. Cool off.”
I should feel dismissed. Controlled.
But I don’t. I feel victorious.
And when I walk past him, I keep my chin high, my spine straight, and the memory of his hesitation burns like a brand between my shoulder blades.
Dante O’Driscoll is cracking.
And I’m the queen wielding the hammer that’s driving in the wedge.
CHAPTER 10
Dahlia
The terrace is quiet, the night air thick with warmth, toxic smog rising from street level and the scent of rain that never came.
I pick at my food—something obscenely expensive, hand-delivered by one of Dante’s faceless minions. Truffle-dusted steak, saffron potatoes, and some kind of air-whipped mousse I couldn’t pronounce if I tried.
Personally, I prefer black-market ramen with hot-sauce packets and a stolen view of the skyline. But I don’t say that. Not tonight.
I feel a crescendo coming.
Because he’s watching me.
Dante O’Driscoll—barefoot, shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, charcoal-gray eyes unreadable—leans against the stone railing like a god surveying his kingdom. Hair rumpled. Sleeves rolled. Whiskey untouched.
He’s not eating much either and for the first time, he’s a little disheveled.
It could be curious if it wasn’t so fucking unfair that he looks even hotter than normal.
I swirl my wine, disgruntled. Restless. So fucking horny. Deciding if I’ll turn full brat if he decides to send me to bed without the fucking he’s been promising for days now.
“So. You gonna tell me why you really need me for this heist, or are we still pretending I’m just here for your entertainment?”
A slow smile. But there’s something behind it this time—tension pulling at the corners of his mouth.
“I told you. You’re good,” he says, then adds, “And it amuses me to have you close. It’s only been a handful of days. You have way more begging to do.”
I roll my eyes, holding the warm compliment at bay. “You’ve got a hundred hackers on payroll who can do what I do. Hell, half of them trained at the same black-ops ghost school you probably fund under three shell companies.”
He doesn’t respond. For a minute, the only sound is the low hum of the city below, the occasional long blare of a horn.
Then he says, almost too softly, “I told you. They’re not you. And they didn’t steal from me.”