Page 8 of Crown of Blood

"Now we're getting somewhere. And what did he do?"

"I caught him." She wraps her arms around herself. "With my best friend. On our couch. Came home early, and there they were, barely even looking sorry for themselves."

I lean back, studying her like a painting no one’s touched in years.

And suddenly, everything fits.

The reason she didn’t run when a man with a gun broke down her door. Because in her world? That wasn’t the worst thing that had happened that day.

She was already bleeding. I just showed up in time to watch.

I run my tongue across my teeth and shake my head once.

"When did all this happen?"

"Tonight. I walked in after I finished here and..." She shakes her head. "I couldn't stay there."

I don’t know why the thought of some slick-haired prick cheating on this woman makes my knuckles itch, but it does. It’s not sympathy. I don’t do that.

But something about the way she’s still sitting there, still upright, still not begging me to let her live—thatearns a reaction.

I've seen a thousand forms of betrayal. Written them into contracts. Delivered them with bullets.

But this...this feels different. Personal.

And I don’t like how much I want to offer her something more than just survival.

"So that's why you were sleeping in my hotel," I murmur, studying the soft curve of her neck, the steel in her spine even as she breaks. "You poor thing."

Shifting in the chair, I lean down to draw a blade from my ankle holster. I move slowly, trying to make it obvious this is not a threat. Just a test.

"Stand."

Her eyes widen, but to my surprise, she rises without argument this time, the sheet clinging to curves that shouldn't interest me.

Moving closer, I let the blade slide against the sheet, parting the fabric again like water. Her chest rises above me as I reveal a pale tank top and simple cotton underwear.

Nothing special. Nothing that should make the blood rush to my cock.

But those eyes. They burn with something beyond terror. Recognition, maybe. Of what I am. Of the danger and power I possess.

"You're not very good at hiding fear, little rabbit." I trace the flat of the blade along her collarbone, watching her pupils blow wide. "But you don't run, either. Why is that?"

Her throat works, swallowing whatever response she's considering. Most witnesses I've encountered fall into predictable patterns—screaming, begging, bargaining for their lives.

This one just... watches. Waits.

The blade catches on the strap of her tank top. One quick motion and I could slice through the thin fabric, watch it fall away like surrendered armor. It would be so easy—a whisper of movement, barely more than a breath.

Instead, I pull back.

A witness in my world is a loose end, nothing more.

Clean. Simple. Final.

But she's not acting like a witness. No desperate pleas. No attempts at escape. Just controlled breaths and defiant silence that makes my teeth itch.

I don't like surprises. They complicate things.

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