Page 16 of Lethal Torture

I stare around the theater, my eyes almost watering in the effort to make out every minor detail.

Finally I settle on the booth on Tier One, where Roman, Mak, and Dimitry are waiting for me.

Only they aren’t alone anymore.

A fourth figure is seated in their booth, carefully positioned so he can stare directly into the same camera the other men have their backs to. Lifting his glass of Scotch in my direction, he takes a long swallow. The gesture, not to mention his unwavering stare into the camera, is too pointed to be anything other than deliberate. And by the casual manner in which the men are talking and laughing with him, he’s clearly their guest.

Which means that the most lethal men I know consider him a friend.

When he lowers the glass, I’d swear the bastard is almost smiling.

My fingers curl into my palms, every nerve in my body tingling.

Luke Macarthur clearly thinks he can play on the dark side.

Sexual desire is something I’ve long learned to keep on the surface, a simple hunger easily satisfied, preferably with people I barely know and care for even less. I learned from a young age to disassociate myself from sex, to take what my body needs without losing any part of myself in the process.

But the man’s watchful eyes send a strange frisson through me, like being poised at the top of a roller coaster before the sudden rush of descent.

It’s dangerous.

And it’s a challenge I already know I won’t be able to walk away from.

Welcome to the game, my friend.

The frisson twists into a lick of desire, deep in the base of my belly.

You have no idea what you’ve started.

Because when it comes to playing dark games, I didn’t just write the rule book.

I invented the fucking sport—and I’m in a league of my own.

4

ZINAIDA

“Congratulations on the new arrivals.”I greet Roman without the slightest glance at the man sprawled across the curved seat on the other side of the table. “Twin boys, I hear?”

“Yep. Although not so new now. They’re nearly six months old and both crawling like demons.” Roman’s grin has none of his old reserve or the hard edge it used to carry. His blatant joy is so obvious it almost makes me uncomfortable. “Aleksander is almost five, so twin brothers are just what he needs to knock him down to size. Darya asked me to thank you for the mobile you sent as a christening gift, by the way. It was very thoughtful. In fact, it was the twins’ favorite toy for months.” He shoots me a rather curious look, as if he hadn’t imagined me capable of choosing a gift babies might like.

“Yes, well. I’ve always liked hanging things, as you know.” I give him the teeth-bared, psychopathic smile that I usually reserve for those I’m about to kill.

Roman grins, entirely unfazed. One of the reasons we’re friends is that he’s never been intimidated by my reputation.

“Speaking of things that deserve to die,” I say, shifting my gaze to Dimitry, “I still haven’t thanked you in person for blowing up that horror house in Myanmar.”

“It’s me who should be thanking you.” Dimitry inclines his head, his gray eyes warm when they meet mine. “For rehabilitating all the women who were held captive there. Abby tells me some are still working for you?”

I nod. “They’re doing well. How’s your little boy?”

Dimitry’s smile almost splits his face. “He’s a terror,” he says, flashing his phone at me to show a photo of his wife, Abby, cuddling a beaming baby at their finca in Spain. “Leon, after my father.”

“Well,” I say, politely admiring the photo, “when she and Darya get tired of domestic bliss, remind them they have complimentary membership to Pigalle Mayfair any time they’re in town.”

Roman gives me a dry smile. “Given the state they were in after their last visit, I’m not sure that’s a good thing.”

“Given that they’re married to you two,” I say equally dryly, “I’d call vast amounts of champagne and inappropriate behavior necessary therapy.”