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Today it feels like a lifetime has passed, although I know it’s only been ten years. She’s seated in a chair across the desk from me. She’s here. She’s alive, and she’s standing in my world, looking like she’s seconds from bolting.
I lean back to listen to her version of how she got herself into this mess. It pretty much confirms what we’ve been able to find out. Hector Pardo is a traitor and a bastard of the first order, and Vallois is a cancer that needs to be eradicated.
I shouldn’t be affected by her; shouldn’t let the memory of how her body once felt beneath mine creep into my being like an insidious whisper. But my mind is a traitor, bringing back the scent of her skin, the way she used to melt for me with the slightest command.
She shouldn’t be here, yet she is.
I inhale, slow and measured, before pushing off the desk. I can’t afford distractions. Not with Vallois moving weapons through Monte Carlo like the rat bastard he is. How the fuck did she get messed up in all of this?
We have a brief and awkward conversation. I find myself crossing my arms and leaning back—I try to catch myself. Exhibiting body language that hints that I may feel a need to defend myself isn’t good, but I can’t seem to stop. I confirm for Cherise that she’s in danger, but that we’ll keep her safe. I also let her know from this point forward, she’s not in control. I am. I lay down the ground rules to which she agrees. I don’t think she realizes fully the chain of events she set in motion. She may well find following my rules is not as easy as she believes it will be.
She was pissed yesterday—she had a right to be. Today, the anger seems to have given way to fear. That’s good. Maybe she’ll listen to me and do what I tell her. If she does, she might just survive whatever’s coming. She may not realize it, but her actions have ignited a firestorm. I only hope I can keep her from getting burned.
I see the way her throat moves as she swallows, the way her body responds to me even when she’s trying to hold her ground. That part hasn’t changed. Neither has the way I want to push her past those defenses, past the polished façade she’s spent years perfecting.
But first, I need to deal with the people trying to kill her.
* * *
I’ve changed into my leathers before I lead Cherise onto the dungeon floor, the chandeliers casting a golden light that refracts off mirrors and polished mahogany. Plush velvet seating curves around low tables where men and women drink expensive whiskey and watch the night unfold.
Cherise stays close to my side, her body humming with the awareness of where she is, what this place represents. The corset I chose for her fits like a glove, a dark, sapphire blue that brings out the storm in the colored contacts. The thong offers little in the way of leaving anything to the imagination.
Interesting that her sex is well-groomed. I wonder if Hector allowed her some curls, or did he insist on being bare? I know which one I would have insisted on. The outfit borders on indecent—because Iwantthem to look. I want every man in this club to know she belongs to me.
She hasn’t said a word since we entered, but I feel her gaze on me, the heat rolling off her in waves.
I pause by the bar, my fingers grazing the small of her back. "Stay close."
She snorts, but she obeys.
Good girl.
Logan Radcliffe, formerly with British Intelligence or MI-6, steps from the shadows with the effortless precision only the English ever seem to master. His tailored leathers are immaculate—of course they are—and he surveys Cherise with a raised brow and a flash of dry amusement.
“So this is the notorious ex-fiancée,” he muses, voice smooth as single malt and twice as sharp. “Must say, mate, she’s a damn sight more intriguing than the files suggested.”
Cherise stiffens; her spine straightens. "I’m right here, you know."
Logan chuckles—even that seems to have an English accent—but I cut him off with a look. "Cherise, you’re a sub in a lifestyle club. You don’t speak to Doms in that manner. Do it again and I’ll put you on high protocol.”
“What’s that?”
“It means you don’t speak until your Dom, that would be me, tells you to.” I turn back to Logan. “Status on Vallois?"
His expression hardens. “He’s been maneuvering, quietly. Word is, he’s about to secure himself a new supplier.”
I nod. "Keep your eyes on him. I don’t like how fast this is escalating."
Cherise shifts beside me, arms crossed. "You’re talking like this is a war."
I glance down at her. "That’s because it is. And lose the attitude,"
Her breath hitches, but before she can say anything, a familiar figure steps into view.
Valentine Duret—one of Vallois’ men.
His gaze locks on Cherise, curiosity flickering behind the smooth façade.