Page 175 of Blackwood

Krolek leans forward, swirling his drink with lazy curiosity. “Laing Wei. All the way from Hong Kong. Now how the hell did you manage to land a piece of ass like this for a wife?”

Laing gives a modest shrug and runs his hand up Bella’s bare thigh, squeezing as he gets to the top of the slit in her dress. “I just got lucky,” he says. “But truth is, she found me in one of her clubs in San Francisco.”

Lex stiffens beside me.

Laing continues, his tone smooth, casual, and way too damn convincing. “One of her girls was giving me a dance, but I couldn’t keep my eyes off her. This sexy thing was over there at the bar drinking with some Russian prick.”

Lex’s fists slam against his thighs. “Motherf—”

Knox elbows him hard. “Cut it out. It’s part of the plan. Krolek’s Polish, he hates Russians. That line just bought us credibility. It’s not a pissing contest.”

Bella laughs softly, tilting her head toward him like it’s a fond memory. “Baby, I’ve told you a million times. It was just business.”

“Business or not, he was touching what I wanted and I couldn’t have it.” Laing slides his hand up her back and curls his fingers into the back of her neck, dragging her down to him and kisses her. Not a peck. A full-on, open-mouthed, possessive-as-hell kiss that sends Lex surging up in his seat like he’s ready to tear through the van wall.

“Don’t,” I warn, grabbing his arm.

“I will kill him,” he growls. “I will fucking kill him.”

Back inside, Bella finally pulls back, her lips still parted, gaze lazy and dangerous. “We’re absolutely crazyfor each other,” she purrs as her hand trails across Laing’s chest.

Lex looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm burst.

“After San Francisco, we expanded. Three exclusive clubs right here in the city. All of them discreet, profitable, and dripping in indulgence.”

She smiles, slow and sinful, the kind that melts resistance and commands attention.

“Think of The Obsidian… only with better dancers, higher stakes, and pleasures most men don’t even know theyneed,until we show them.”

Laing’s hand slides up and down her thigh. He leans in, mouth brushing her ear. “That’s right, baby,” his voice low and filled with heat. “They come once and then they always come back for more.”

Bella laughs and tilts her head, giving him access to her throat. He takes it, lips brushing her neck in a way that feels far too real for comfort. My fists tighten and the pressure in my jaw I swear could cut diamonds.

She leans toward Krolek, just enough for him to get a perfect view down her dress. “We’re hosting a private party for our most elite clients next month. All we’re missing…” Her lips part, voice sultry and dangerous, “…are the right girls.”

She doesn’t sound like Bella.She sounds like the woman monsters trust.

Over the comms, Tex’s voice crackles in, amused. “It’s working. I can see the fucker’s dick getting hard from here. She’s almost got him.”

Lex mutters from beside me, voice low and clipped, “God I hate this fucking van.”

I glance over, then back at the screen. “She’s got this,” I say tightly, though it’s more for my own reassurance than his. Because right now, I don’t know what’s worse. Watching Bella become someone so terrifyingly seductive or knowing her and Laing play this part a little too well.

“I can get you the girls,” Krolek says, his Polish accent curling around every word. “You tell me what you like. Age. Look. Temperament. I will make it happen. Quickly.”

Laing nods, smooth as ever. “Perfect.” He leans back, smile slow and sharp. “We are, however, looking for a very specific flavor.”

He glances at Bella, eyes gleaming. “My lovely bride here has high standards for our clubs. Before we make any kind of commitment, she’ll need a little preview. A sample. Just to make sure the product matches the price.”

“Ah, of course. I understand completely.”

He turns, barking something in Polish to the man near the door. The command is short, clipped, and efficient. The man nods once, then mutters into a walkie.

A minute passes before the far door creaks open.

Five girls step in. They can’t be older than nineteen. Most are probably closer to sixteen. All of them are dressed like they’ve been shoved through a glam factory—cocktail dresses, sky-high stilettos, glossy curls and makeup applied to hide the fear in their faces. But it’s still there. In the eyes. Hollow. Haunted.

They line up like inventory.