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She licked her full lips.

Tempting the devil.

I was going to taste those sweet lips again very soon. But first I wanted to hear her answer.

"I was thinking I needed to eat and pay rent."

"Well, you don't have to worry about that anymore." I ran the flat of the blade down her body.

Her body jerked as her eyes widened.

I was fully aware she assumed I meant I was going to kill her.

I wasn't going to. At least I was pretty sure I wouldn't.

A better man, a good man, would have reassured her that she would survive our little encounter.

I was many things; a good man was not one of them. In fact, many have called me everything from an evil son of a bitch—which if they knew my mother, was not unwarranted—to a sadistic asshole.

Most of the men who had dared to say such disrespectful things to me were dead. They died slowly and painfully, which may have proved their point.

I was content being a sadistic asshole, and it suited my purposes to keep Alina thinking that her life was on the line. Her fear was sweet, and it brought a serrated edge to her submission that made my mouth water.

It gave me a hunger I was going to satisfy very soon.

I rested the knife on her hip. With her hands handcuffed, it was nothing more than a taunt. A tease. A threat. Keeping my gaze trained on her, I kicked off my shoes and started unbuttoning my shirt.

"You could have worked anywhere. Why there? What did you do for the… patrons of that club?"

I didn't want to know.

The club had a reputation with my men. Velvet Dreams wasn't where you went for a lap dance. It was where you went to get your cock sucked for cheap. The dancers strutted around, and every single one of them was for sale at bargain basement prices.

Apparently, for an extra hundred bucks, a few of the girls would let the men fuck them raw.

More than one of my men had to see the doctor wekept on staff to treat what they now called the “velvet rash.”

Was my girl for sale too? Did she let those dirty fuckers touch her?

I would kill every single man who dared touch her.

"Normal jobs don't pay enough," she said, her voice shaking. "And I don't have the experience they need. I'm just trying to support myself."

"How long?" I asked, undoing another button. Her eyes were focused on my hands as I worked each button free.

"How long what?"

"How long have you been supporting yourself on your back?"

Her brows furrowed in confusion, then cleared as a fire lit in her eyes.

"I am a bartender, not a whore."

"Is there a difference in that place?"

"Yes," she said between clenched teeth.

Maybe it was only because I wanted to, but I believed her.