Page 9 of Intrigue (Dark Syndicate #4)

Selene

The coffee in my cup has gone cold, but I keep stirring it anyway, watching the swirl of cream dissolve into nothing. Across from me, Cassian shifts in his seat, his fingers drumming against the wooden table. He’s been quiet too long, and I know something is wrong before he even speaks.

“The lease fell through,” he finally says, voice tight. “I don’t know how—”

My stomach drops. The spoon slips from my fingers, clattering against the saucer. My mind can’t stop thinking about the things Sandro did to me in the gallery. His mouth against my skin, his hands pinning me down, his words sinking into me like a promise and a curse. God, I almost broke.

How can I still want him after everything?

Then Cassian speaks again, and my heart clenches.

“Apparently, Sandro offered the landlord a better deal,” he continues. “The gallery is his now.”

Of course it is.

Cassian looks at me like he’s waiting for me to make sense of it, to explain why the man who shouldn’t have any part in our lives keeps sinking his claws deeper. But I don’t have an answer he’ll want to hear. Because I know exactly why Sandro did this. He’s proving a point.

Cassian shakes his head. “I don’t understand. We had a contract. This was supposed to be—”

“Our future,” I finish softly.

I should feel anger on his behalf, rage that Sandro keeps taking what isn’t his. Instead, all I feel is something tangled and ugly inside me, because I know this isn’t about Cassian. It’s about me.

It’s about the way my body still remembers Sandro’s touch before my mind can tell it to forget. It’s about the way my breathing turns shallow when he’s near.

How I could put a stop to all this with one word to my father. But I don’t.

Because deep down, I’ve been waiting for an excuse. A reason to stop pretending. To stop playing the role of the devoted fiancée when I’ve been slipping through the cracks for months.

And Sandro?

He’s always been the fall I never learned how to stop taking.

“This is weird, Selene.” His voice is careful, like he’s stepping around something sharp. “Almost like he has something else up his sleeve. He already made your father give him total control over our affairs for the time being, why would he want my gallery too?”

I force myself to meet his eyes. Hazel, warm, searching. He’s looking for something in me that isn’t there, something whole, something pure.

“He and I have history,” I say, the words heavy and finally out there. “It’s complicated. We don’t exactly see eye to eye.”

Cassian blinks. He leans back slightly, like I just knocked the breath from his lungs. “History?”

I nod, fingers curling around my cup. “Before I left Florence.”

His brows draw together. “I don’t get it. Isn’t he like your brother? You grew up together before your father turned him into a war machine.”

I swallow, my mouth dry. “Not exactly.”

Cassian studies me, waiting for more, but I have nothing else to give him. Because how do I tell the man I’m about to marry that my pseudo-estranged brother was the man who took my virginity? That he made me feel things no man ever has? That even now, my body still betrays me at the thought of him?

Cassian rubs his jaw. “Does your father know about this?”

I let out a dry laugh. “Knowing him? He probably orchestrated it.”

Cassian’s expression tightens. “Selene, you have to talk to him. If Sandro is doing this because of your past—”

“No,” I cut in. “It won’t change anything.”

His jaw clenches. “So, what? We just let him take whatever he wants?”

I want to tell him it’s not about the gallery. That it was never about the gallery. That Sandro isn’t taking things, he’s reclaiming them. And I don’t know if I can stop him.

The ring on my finger feels heavier. I curl my hand into a fist, pressing it into my thigh. “I don’t know.”

Cassian’s frustration flares. “You’re not even trying to fight him, Selene. Why?”

Because I don’t know if I want to. Because some part of me still aches for the way Sandro touches me, the way he makes me feel alive even when I’m drowning. But I can’t say that.

I shake my head. “I just, I need time. But I’ll talk to him.”

He watches me for a long moment, then sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t understand you.”

Neither do I.

***

Apparently, I’m well known because when I storm one of Sandro’s warehouses, the one I know he’ll most probably be at, his guys do nothing to stop me. I figure that’s one way to go about it. If they see the anger flashing in my eyes and in my stiff shoulders, they don’t point it out.

They’re more subtle about it, giving me a clear path to cut through, their silence a tacit bow to the fury radiating off me like heat from a furnace.

A million thoughts go through my mind at this point, most of which are about how much I can’t stand his audacity and the way Sandro seems all too keen to rope both me and Cassian into his carefully crafted web, a spider savoring the tremble of trapped prey.

I know how dangerous Sandro is. I’m not so naive that I’d think he’s all words and no bite since his reputation almost certainly precedes him, a shadow that swallows men whole.

But today, I’m pissed and rightly so, which means I don’t care about his reputation or the danger he commands. My blood’s boiling.

I want him to know he’s not going to be able to get away with this intentional sabotage no matter how much power he seems to hold.

The warehouse is grimy and smells of moss, and there are crates all around, a labyrinth of decay and greed. On the day that I storm here to confront Sandro, I walk in on a moving shipment of guns. The irony isn’t lost on me, a bitter taste on my tongue as I stride deeper into his den.

“How dare you go that far?” I yell, my voice cutting through the din.

Sandro doesn’t look surprised. If anything, he looks amused, hands tucked into his pockets, watching me like he’s been expecting this. Expecting me.

“You’re relentless,” he muses, stepping closer. “I like that.”

“You bought the gallery lease.” I go right at it. “Why?”

His head tilts. “You already know why.”

I do. And it infuriates me.

I push at his chest, but he doesn’t budge. “Stay out of my life. You’re nothing but a leech, even with all the power you think you possess, sucking at anything that moves just to feel alive.”

“Selene—”

“Don’t say my name with that mouth of yours!” I don’t know why I’m yelling even after getting his attention above the sea of noise in the warehouse, but I know why I can’t seem to stop myself, my rage a live wire sparking uncontrollably.

Because Sandro enjoys this, revels in it even, his eyes glinting with sick delight.

Perhaps that’s why he finds ways to rattle me despite having a lot of things he can better use his time for, like a hound baiting a fox for sport.

The moment the scowl on his face dissolves into a smirk, I’m proven right, and my stomach twists with loathing and something darker, hotter.

What a monster.

A gorgeous, fucking monster.

He’s dressed in jeans, the first I’ve seen on him in ages, the denim hugging his thighs like a second skin.

This, he pairs with a plaid shirt and work boots, rugged and primal, a man carved from shadows and sin.

Even in the dim lights of the place, my body immediately recognizes him and sets the longing between both of us ablaze, an electric current that sears my nerves despite my fury.

I’m not here for that. I ball my hands into fists as I draw close to his face, close enough to smell the sweat and gunpowder on him.

“How low can you go? Trying to frustrate Cassian for your selfish gains? That just makes you look insecure and wholly incompetent, a petty king scrabbling for scraps.”

“Be careful with your words, Selene. You’re walking on a very thin rope right now.”

His words send a chill down my spine, icy tendrils curling around my resolve. A part of me knows he’d never physically hurt me, but maybe I crossed a line just now, and doubt makes my pulse race.

Whatever. He crossed the line first. He’s going to have to deal with me. My vengeance has to start slowly to be able to do more damage, a creeping poison, but I hate how much he takes and takes to incite me, feeding off my chaos like it’s his lifeline.

“You really make it hard for me not to hate you, Sandro.”

“You certainly won’t be the first to come to that conclusion,” he replies, unfazed, his tone dripping with mockery.

“You think you’re so mighty right now, don’t you? I’m gonna pull you down even if I have to claw my way through. You get that?” I say, my voice trembling with something unnameable.

He pins me with a hard look, poised and ready, his lips drawn in a tight line, eyes burning into mine. “That’s the difference between us, then. I’m always prepared to fight dirty,” he says, each word a promise of ruin.

“Cheat!” I drawl, ready to slap him as hard as I can, my fist cocked and itching to connect.

He moves fast, grabbing my wrist, pushing me until my back hits a crate. Hard. A gasp rips from my throat, but I don’t fight him. Not yet. His breath is warm against my cheek, his grip unforgiving.

“I won’t let you do that twice, Selene,” he murmurs. “Once is all you’ll ever get.”

I hate him. I hate how close he is, how his scent—leather, smoke, something enchanting—invades my lungs. I hate the way my pulse betrays me, hammering against my ribs, my body reacting before my mind can shut it down.

Then he hoists me up by my forearm, flinging me over his shoulders as though I weigh nothing, his strength a brutal reminder of his control. Adrenaline pumps in my veins as he holds me to him and strolls away from the chaos of unloading guns and high-pitched commands, his grip iron-tight.

“Put me down right now, Sandro!” I demand, thrashing against him.

“In time,” he decides, harshly, his voice a growl that vibrates through me. “Now, be patient.”