Page 62

He grabs a fistful of my hair, pulls me upright until my back arches, my breath ragged.
“You’re doing so well,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of my jaw. “You were made for this. For me.”
I nod, nearly sobbing with the effort of holding back. “Please.”
He rewards me with another thrust. Then another. Then stops.
“You want to come, little thief?” His voice is fire in my ear. “Then give me your eyes. Right here.”
He spins me around so I’m facing him, fills my vision with him. Only him. He strokes himself slowly while watching me tremble, spread wide and wrecked.
His other hand rubs at my wet cheeks, at the tears that have fallen in his honor.
Then he pulls me close, takes my tongue with his in a filthy, sloppy kiss.
“Keep your eyes on me when you come,” he says. “Don’t you fucking look away.”
I don’t.
And when he slides back into me and gives me everything—everything—I shatter. Gasping, sobbing, broken open in every way.
And still, he holds me.
“Perfect,” he whispers. “You’re perfect.”
Dahlia
I’mboneless when we return to our seat, courtesy of two more orgasms and the best aftercare in the world.
Dante starts to raise a brow when I order another cocktail, but then he stills beside me.
My heart slows. Follows his gaze. “Who’s that?” I ask.
“Varric. Vesper Syndicate.”
I nod. Watch him from beneath my lashes.
He sits on a raised leather throne near the back of the private lounge, surrounded by the usual leeches drawn to soiled power.
He’s tall, lean in a way that’s all wire and menace, like a diseased hyena dressed in Tom Ford. His black hair is slicked back with precision, but the cruel twist of his mouth pretends he’s above vanity. One hand swirls a glass of something blood-red, the other strokes the thigh of the submissive kneeling beside him like she’s a housecat.
Cold. Sadistic.
His name has popped up in some depraved pockets of the Dark Web. Rumor has it he’s a useful appendage of Vesper—the one who handles the “messy” ends of empire. The one who makes enemies disappear. Not flashy like some of the others. Not power-hungry.
Just lethal.
He lifts his gaze. Sees us and his lip curl deepens. I’m not sure if it’s a smile or a warning. Clearly, he’s been waiting. And his black gaze says this is going to be fun.
“Keep those claws tucked away, pet,” Dante murmurs.
“I will,” I whisper. “For now.”
But inside, every nerve is screaming.
Because whatever this game is, it’s started.
And we just stepped onto his board.