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I stroked myself harder, water mixing with sweat, steam thick in my lungs. I pictured her lips wrapped around my cock, her back arching as I pulled her close and made her take every inch down that perfect throat.

I came with a grunt, chest heaving, one hand braced against the tile. My seed spurted down into the drain.

Wasted.

I stood there under the spray, jaw clenched, heart hammering, staring at it.

This wasn’t just lust.

This was something darker.

Something I hadn’t felt in a long, long time.

And it had the mayor’s daughter’s name written all over it.

CHAPTER 6

Sloane

I didn’t even bother drying my hair. I just tossed it up in a knot, swiped on a little lip gloss, and settled into the corner of my bed with my laptop, wearing a soft, comfortable hoodie and a slightly evil gleam in my eyes. At least I imagined that’s what I looked like.

I wasn’t going to say that I was plotting, but I was absolutely plotting.

It wasn’t like I planned to get involved with underground fight night logistics, but there I was. I blamed Nikolai Morozov and his stupid perfect face and stupid perfect punches and the fact that I could still feel his gaze on my skin like it had left a mark.

And yeah, okay, maybe I’d Googled his last name three different ways. Maybe I skimmed some Russian mafia conspiracy threads, and maybe I spent an uncomfortable amount of time staring at a leaked fight video that caught about three seconds of him taping his hands with a methodical, predatory grace that definitely made my pussy clench.

Don’t judge me.

I wasn’t in love with him or anything. I was just… curious.

Anyway.

Focus.

Money.

I opened a new tab and started poking around a betting site I’d jacked access to through one of Ghost’s burner login drops. It wasn’t public-facing—it was dark web adjacent. Members only. There was a live fight card list for the week, names, odds, everything.

And buried in Saturday night’s lineup?

A name:Moretti.

Odds in his favor. Heavyweight champion. Unbeaten streak. Trained with the Morozovs’ crew.

Perfect.

I opened a text thread and sent a message to Ghost.

Me: I want to tank someone’s reputation. Quietly. Nothing permanent. Just enough to shift confidence. Can you make Moretti look injured?

Ghost: Old photo? Fake tweet? Limping on the way to a car? How nasty we talking?

Me: Subtle. Like… sports gossip subtle. “Did you see that wrap on his knee?” energy.

Ghost: You’re getting good at this.

Me: I’m bored and rich. Bad combination.