Page 33 of Over the Edge

His eyes never left mine as he reopened the box, lifted the bracelet, and held it suspended between us. “May I?”

It was the first time he’d asked permission for anything, and we both knew it wasn’t actually a request. I extended my wrist, letting him clasp the cold diamonds around it. They caught the light and threw prisms across the tablecloth when I turned my arm.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, his fingers lingering on my skin too long. Then he leaned back in his chair and picked up his wine glass, swirling the blood-red liquid. “Tell me, Elisa. How far are you willing to go to secure Sentinel?”

I took a careful sip of wine to buy myself a half-second. This was the moment—the fulcrum point where my next words could either secure an invitation or get me killed.

I set the glass down with care and smoothed my hand over the linen napkin in my lap. This was the part where Elisa Deveraux would purr, would lean in, would offer just enough suggestion to keep him biting.

But I couldn’t make myself do it.

Moreau was a handsome man by all conventional beauty standards, but those eyes were empty. A shark’s eyes. He tweaked a primal part of me that warned of danger—not the delicious, reckless danger Flynn represented, but the kind that made my skin crawl.

Flynn was right about one thing: Moreau was a predator. And predators watched for weakness. If I let him see how much he rattled me, I wouldn’t leave this restaurant with an invitation.

I’d walk out with a target on my back.

So I swallowed my revulsion and leaned forward. “That depends.”

His gaze dropped to my breasts, his eyes half-lidded. “On?”

“On whether you’re offering a business transaction, or something else entirely.”

Moreau’s lip curled. He leaned forward, and his cologne invaded my space. His hand slid beneath the table, settling with possessive weight on my thigh. “Why choose? Some deals are best sealed in both boardrooms and bedrooms.”

Once before Monte Carlo, before Flynn, I would’ve done it, no hesitation. Sex was just another mask, after all. Another currency.

But now I couldn’t stop comparing.

Flynn’s touch igniting something in me I thought I’d cauterized years ago. Moreau’s hands, smooth and manicured, landing on my skin like ice.

Flynn’s eyes, hungry but honest, versus this predator’s calculating gaze.

Flynn’s possessiveness, raw and instinctive, versus Moreau’s ownership.

Moreau’s hand slid up my thigh, and the bit of dinner I’d had curdled in my stomach. I kept my expression smooth, my posture relaxed. But inside, I was screaming like a spider was on my leg instead of his hand.

He leaned in and kissed me. I knew it was coming, and yet I couldn’t suppress the involuntary stiffening of my body. His lips were cold and practiced, moving against mine with the prowess of a man who’d learned technique but never passion.

And once again, Flynn invaded my thoughts.

Flynn, whose kisses were wild and unpracticed and real. Whose touch never once felt like a transaction.

Flynn, who didn’t need to prove anything to anyone because he already knew what he was.

Everything in me revolted, a visceral rejection I couldn’t hide. I jerked back too quickly, too sharply.

A mistake.

Moreau pulled back with the kind of satisfaction that made my stomach churn. “Ah,” he murmured. “There it is.”

I locked my jaw.

He reached into his jacket once more. This time, he pulled out a gold-embossed invitation and placed it between us with a casual flick of his fingers.

“You’ll have to wait for the auction, I’m afraid,” he said lightly. “A shame. I was hoping we could come to an… earlier arrangement.”

I slid the envelope into my clutch without breaking eye contact. My wrist itched under the weight of the bracelet, but I didn’t take it off. “Then I’ll see you at the auction.”

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