Page 8 of Silent Schemes (Broken Blood)

"I don't sleep," he says, his voice rough like gravel. "Haven't in years. Too many ghosts haunt me."

"We all have ghosts," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "The difference is whether you're running from them or toward them."

"And which are you doing, Sienna?"

"Both. Always both."

His hand comes up to my throat, not squeezing, just resting there. "That's what makes you dangerous. You don't know if you're predator or prey."

I can feel my pulse hammering against his palm. "But you already knew that. Just like I know about the Romano heir. How he tried to touch Maya first, before you intervened. How you made him suffer for hours before you let him die."

My breath catches. No one knows that. No one should know that.

"How—"

"I have eyes everywhere, Sienna. The question is what we do with what we see."

His thumb traces the line of my jaw, and I hate how my body responds.

This isn't how it's supposed to go.

I'm supposed to be in control, using my body as a weapon, making him weak with want.

Instead, I'm the one trembling as his other hand slides up my ribs, thumb brushing just beneath the curve of my breast through his shirt I'm wearing.

"You want to seduce me," he says, and it's not a question. "Been planning it since you walked into my casino. How were you going to do it? Slow and sweet, make me think you're falling for me? Or fast and dirty, get me addicted to the danger of you?"

I reach for the knife I've hidden—even wearing his clothes, I'm not unarmed—and press it against his ribs.

The blade is sharp enough to slide between them with minimal pressure.

His response is to press closer, letting the tip pierce his skin just enough to draw a bead of blood.

"There she is," he murmurs, and he sounds pleased. "The real Sienna. Not Theodore's weapon. Not the perfect daughter. Just you—beautiful and lethal and lost."

"I'm not lost."

"No?" He leans down, his lips brushing my ear. "Then why are you shaking?"

Because I am.

My whole body is vibrating with something that isn't fear but should be.

His hand at my throat slides around to tangle in my hair, tugging my head back to expose more of my neck.

I should use this moment to strike.

Instead, I press the knife harder, warning him.

"Careful," I breathe.

"I'm never careful, Ruin ."

I almost don’t register what he’s calling me before he kisses me.

And, it's nothing like the calculated seductions I've performed before.

This is raw hunger, desperate need, two predators trying to devour each other.

His teeth catch my lower lip, biting down just hard enough to sting, and I respond by dragging my nails down his back, feeling skin break beneath them.

The knife stays between us, a reminder of what we are, what this is.

But when his hand slides down to grip my thigh, hiking it up around his waist, I forget about the mission.

Forget about my father.

Forget everything except the feeling of being pressed between cold glass and burning heat.

His mouth moves to my throat, and I know he's going to leave marks.

Evidence.

Proof that I let him this close.

My father will see them and know I've compromised myself.

The thought should stop me.

Instead, it makes me grip his hair harder, hold him there, let him brand me with his mouth while I mark him with my nails.

"You're going to be the death of me," he says against my skin, and it should sound like surrender, but somehow sounds like victory.

"That's the plan," I gasp as his hand slides higher up my thigh.

"Liar." He pulls back just enough to look at me, and his eyes are black with want. "If you wanted me dead, I'd already be bleeding out. That knife? You're holding it wrong for a kill shot. You shifted your grip thirty seconds ago."

He's right.

I hate that he's right.

Somewhere between the first kiss and now, I stopped holding the knife to kill and started holding it to warn.

To play.

To keep this dangerous dance going.

"Maybe I want to take my time," I challenge.

"Maybe you want something else entirely."

The hand in my hair tightens, pulling my head back further, and his mouth returns to my throat, moving lower.

The shirt I'm wearing—his shirt—has buttons.

He doesn't bother with them.

The fabric tears, expensive cotton giving way to expose skin he marks with teeth and tongue.

I should stop this.

Should remember why I'm here, what I'm supposed to do.

But when he lifts me fully against the window, when I wrap both legs around his waist and feel exactly how much he wants this, wants me, rational thought disappears.

The knife clatters to the floor.

I need both hands free—one to grip his shoulder, nails digging in deep enough to scar, the other to pull his mouth back to mine.

The kiss is violent, all teeth and desperation, trying to consume each other.

"Tell me to stop," he says against my mouth, even as his hands grip me tighter.

"You first," I challenge back.

Neither of us stops.

We're both too far gone, caught in this spiral of violence and desire that can only end in destruction.

When he carries me away from the window, still kissing me like he's trying to steal my breath, my soul, my very existence, I know I'm lost.

Not to him.

To myself.

To this version of me that wants something beyond my duty, beyond survival.

When we finally break apart, both breathing like we've run miles, I see the damage we've done.

His back is shredded, blood seeping through the scratches my nails left.

My lip is split and swollen from his teeth.

There are bruises forming on my thighs from his grip, marks on my throat from his mouth.

We stare at each other, both trying to process what just happened.

This wasn't seduction.

This wasn't part of any plan.

This was pure, dangerous need.

"Round one," he says, touching his finger to my bleeding lip. "Draw."

The word hangs between us—draw.

Not victory for either side.

We're equally matched, equally dangerous, equally compromised.

I slide down from his grip, feet finding the floor on unsteady legs.

The shirt I'm wearing is ruined, hanging open, and I don't bother to close it.

Let him see what he's done.

Let him see what he's started.

"This doesn't change anything," I say, but my voice shakes.

"It changes everything." He moves to his desk, muscles in his back rippling, the scratches I left gleaming with fresh blood. "Call your father. Tell him you need more time. Tell him I'm harder to crack than expected."

I reach for the phone, but he stops me, spinning my wrist to pull me against him.

The knife I dropped earlier is somehow in his hand now.

"Not yet," he says, the blade cold against my throat. "We're not finished."

My pulse hammers against the metal.

This is what I trained for—violence and seduction intertwined.

But training never prepared me for wanting both.

"You like the knife," he observes, trailing it down from my throat, over my collarbone, between my breasts.

The torn shirt falls open further. "Your breathing changed. Your pupils dilated."

"I like danger."

"No, my little ruin. You like my danger." The blade catches on the fabric, parts it completely. "There's a difference."

The cold metal traces patterns on my skin, never breaking it, just reminding me how easily it could.

His other hand grips my hip, thumb pressing into the bruise he left earlier, and I can't stop the sound that escapes me.

"That's it," he murmurs, voice dark with satisfaction. "No pretending. No performance. Just you."

The knife clatters to the floor as he lifts me onto the desk, papers scattering.

His mouth is on mine before I can protest, hungry and demanding.

I bite his lip hard enough to draw blood, and his growl vibrates through both of us.

"You want to know what happens in forty-eight hours?" he says against my mouth. "You'll be mine completely, or you'll be gone forever. No middle ground."

His hands are everywhere, leaving marks that will last for days, evidence I can't hide from my father.

I should care.

Instead, I pull him closer, nails raking down his chest, adding new wounds to his collection.

"You're assuming I won't kill you first," I gasp.

"You've had dozens of chances." His teeth find my throat. "You won't take the next one either."

I want to argue, but then his hand slides higher up my thigh and coherent thought becomes impossible.

This is nothing like the clinical seductions I've performed before.

This is raw need, dangerous, and addictive.

His mouth finds mine, demanding and possessive, and I hate how eagerly I respond.

This isn't what I’m supposed to be doing.

This isn't the plan.

"You're thinking too much," he murmurs against my jaw. "Stop calculating. Stop planning your next move."

"I can't?—"

"You can. Let me show you."

His touch is confident, knowing, and my traitorous body responds instantly.

I've been trained to seduce, to perform, but this isn't performance.

This is real , and that terrifies me more than any weapon ever could.

"I hate you," I whisper, but my hands are pulling him closer.

"No," he says, voice rough. "You hate that you want this. Want me. Despite everything your father trained you to be."

He's right.

I do hate it.

I hate how my body betrays every lesson, every wall I've built.

This was supposed to be simple—seduce him, kill him, leave.

Instead, I'm coming undone under his touch, forgetting why I came here.

"Look at me," he commands, and I do.

His eyes are dark, intense, seeing straight through every defense. "This is real. Everything else is the lie."

The worst part is, I believe him.

At this moment, with everything spinning out of control, this feels like the only true thing in my life of deception.

His touch is deliberate, knowing exactly how to make me forget everything—my task, my father, even my own name.

My body betrays me completely, responding to him like I was made for this, for him.

"That's it," he murmurs against my throat. "Stop fighting it."

I hate him for how easily he's dismantling me.

Hate myself more for how desperately I want him to continue.

Every carefully constructed wall I've built crumbles under his touch.

"I can't—" The words break apart as sensation overwhelms me.

"You can," he says, voice rough with his own need. "Let go, girl. Just this once, stop being his weapon and just be."

The intensity builds until I'm trembling, caught between resistance and surrender.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

I was supposed to stay in control, stay focused on the mission.

Instead, I'm shattering into pieces, my trained composure completely destroyed.

When I finally break, it's with his name on my lips—not a performance, not a seduction technique, just raw truth.

After, as we both struggle to breathe, reality crashes back.

What have I done? This changes everything.

"Forty-eight hours," he reminds me, voice still rough. "Then you choose."

The weight of that choice feels heavier now, with his touch still burning on my skin.