Page 82 of Forbidden Empire

Either Rhea had slipped away for good, or we had her dead to rights.

Blood was coming, one way or another.

I felt Esme move in behind me, her presence igniting the air, close enough to raise the hairs on my neck.

The three of us hung there, caught in the split-second before the world changed, tension crackling, waiting for what came next.

"We have movement at Rhea's last known location."

The words hit me hard, adrenaline spiking in my veins and making my pulse roar in my ears.

Esme was already on the move before I had time to process the information, a blur of silk and hunger, her robe fanning out behind her as she lunged for the table, a woman possessed by need and fury.

"Finally." The sound ripped from her, a demand, rough, raw, and desperate.

Her nails tore over the scattered maps, frantic, the scrape of a hiss of violence in the hush.

Neon from the Vegas Strip caught her green eyes, making them burn with something feral, something honed enough to cut straight through me.

She slammed her palm onto a spot, the force rattling the table and sending papers shivering.

"Was she here?" The question was a challenge, a weapon, and I could feel the expectation coiled inside her, ready to detonate.

Ares stalked forward, the weight of his boots grinding against the cheap floor.

"That's it." He leaned in, scar at his temple seemed to throb, his battered knuckles just a breath from Esme's hand on the map.

Neither one flinched, their intensity vibrating in the scant space between them. Two predators. Two guns cocked and waiting for an excuse.

"No movement since?" Esme's gaze narrowed, blazing emeralds ready to fire.

I felt the ruthlessness gathering in her, the anticipation of the hunt, and the promise of blood behind her eyes, the air thick with want and violence.

The softness vanished from her in an instant, gone as if burned off by desert sun.

Her spine snapped straight, shoulders locked, jaw set in a line that meant nothing, and no one would stand in her way.

This was the Esme who had stolen from me, outplayed me, survived things I'd rather forget.

Her fingers glided over the map, each nail clicking against paper as she pinpointed entry after entry. My blood rushed south so fast it was almost dizzying. The rough scrape of denim against my cock forced me to shift, to ground myself as she leaned in, calculating vengeance with a precision that was almost surgical.

Her teeth caught on her bottom lip, her eyes narrowing as she weighed timelines, risks, casualties.

I couldn't stop staring at her mouth, remembering how it felt pressed to my throat just hours before. Sweat pricked at my hairline.

When she planted both hands on the table, the muscles in her arms taut and bracing, I nearly let out a groan.

Power pulsed from her, not the counterfeit kind you bought with money or threats, but the kind you earned when you survived everything.

Vegas neon caught in her hair, reflecting a sheet of electric fire on the black strands.

Christ, I wanted to grab it, yank her head back, taste her again right here, right now.

Maps, plans, whatever she was plotting could wait. I wanted her intelligence scraping against my skin, her rage on my tongue, both of us burning hotter than the city outside.

She prowled, lethal and elegant, every movement a taut promise. The way her fingers traced the map was the same way she'd traced my scars hours before, with a kind of reverence edged in danger.

I saw it then, something buried beneath the silk clinging to her skin, deeper than the curve of her spine: a reflection of my own darkness, sharp and hungry.