Page 30 of Terror at the Gates

“Why do you always ask me that?”

“I don’t know,” I said. Anger just seemed like the natural reaction to anything I did. The real question was why did I care what he thought?

“Do you expect I will disapprove?” he asked.

I didn’t want to talk anymore. His questions made it hard to focus on my work, so I didn’t answer and instead focused on the energy in the room. The air felt electric. It always did when I danced, but more so when it was slow and sensual. I liked to imagine I was releasing everything I didn’t want—the guilt my mother and father planted inside me, the fear of not being able to survive in this world, the desperation that had sent me to Smugglers’ Row week after week.

When I looked at Zahariev again, I didn’t feel so lost.

I approached, our eyes locked, and placed my hands on his knees, swiveling my hips as I lowered to the floor before him and rose again, palms sliding up his thighs.

He didn’t stop me.

Zahariev was built. I’d seen him without a shirt plenty of times, but feeling the hard edges of his muscles was a different experience. His stomach, chest, and arms were covered in ink. I remembered when he’d gotten his first tattooand how my mother had disapproved. She considered them to be tasteless and unsuitable for anyone who intended to lead a family, but her disapproval meant nothing to him, and at each event after that, he seemed to have a new piece. Eventually, they crept beyond the edges of his clothing, up his neck and past his wrists to the tops of his hands and knuckles.

I liked them.

He knew it.

I rested my hands on his shoulders and then straddled him, a knee on either side of his body. I didn’t let myself rest fully against him, but my nails scraped against the shorn hair at the back of his head until my fingers found and twisted into his longer strands. I pulled, and his head tilted back, my lips hovering close to his.

He didn’t move an inch.

I’d never been this close to him before. I didn’t expect to grow warm where we touched. Inside, my body was at war, growing soft but taut at the same time.

“Well, Zahariev?” I asked, my voice quiet. “Are you satisfied?”

My lips parted on a gasp when Zahariev’s hands cupped my bare ass. He sat up straight, bringing us closer. His eyes darted to my mouth as he spoke.

“You dance in the cage,” he said. “You stay masked and keep your clothes on.”

His fingers dug into my skin as if to emphasize the point.

“No private dances and no fucking magic,” he continued. “Do you understand?”

He was trying to sound authoritative, but I couldn’t help smiling.

“Are you saying I have a job?” I asked.

The corner of his mouth lifted even as he warned, “Until you break my rules.”

I ignored the implication of his words and let out an unholy screech as I threw my arms around his neck. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

I squeezed him, and his hands went to my sides. He didn’t push me away, but he was definitely trying to keep me at a distance, which was fine. I needed to leave anyway and tell Coco the good news.

I started to pull away, to ask him when I could start, but Zahariev’s arm suddenly tightened around me. He threw me to the side, and I landed on the couch, stunned. I watched him rise to his feet and draw his gun just as the curtain to our room was forced aside. Two men stood there dressed smartly in matching dark gray suits and shiny black shoes. One wore a light blue button-up, the other beige.

They each wore a matching gold pin on the lapel of their jackets in the shape of a cross, which basically introduced them as enforcers from First Temple, a kind of law enforcement. I could guess why they were here.

“Calm down, Zahariev,” said the man in light blue. He put his hands up, palms flat. He was younger than the one in beige.

“You’re in my territory, Burke,” Zahariev said. “Don’t tell me to calm down.”

“We heard a noise,” the enforcer explained. “We came to investigate.”

“You heard a noise all the way in Hiram?” Zahariev asked.

“We came from Hiram to speak with you. We thought we heard a woman in distress,” said the older man. His gaze slid from Zahariev to me. He nodded. “MissLeviathan.”