Page 10 of The Lasso Master

She hesitated, then shook her head. “You wouldn’t believe me.”

Reed leaned in, bracing one hand on the chair’s armrest beside her thigh. The movement boxed her in, brought their faces within inches. Her breath hitched just slightly—more reflex than fear—and it lit a fuse in his blood. He could feel the heat radiating from her, tension thrumming in the air like a live wire between them. He wasn’t just caging her in. He was daring her to push, to challenge, to submit. And deep down, some part of him wanted her to do all three at once.

“Harper,” he said, voice dark and quiet, “I’ve cleaned up bodies for billionaires, dismantled sex rings in four countries, and dragged senators out of dungeons before the media caught wind. Try me.”

Something flickered in her eyes—relief? Respect? He couldn’t tell. But she didn’t argue.

Still, she didn’t answer either.

He pushed the folder into her lap.

“Here’s how this works,” he said. “You stay with me—my home, here in the office or out at the club. You will be under my supervision. You don’t lie. You don’t run. You follow my rules. I find out who set you up, if you’re telling the truth.”

“And if I’m not?” she asked, her voice just shy of mocking.

“Then I call in a favor and make sure you land in a federal holding cell with no exit plan. And not some cushy white-collar wing either—I’m talking about a black site where names go tovanish and rules are optional. I know people who would lock you up just to watch what you'd do when the lights don’t come back on.”

Her lips parted, sass rising—but he leaned in again, dropped his voice to a whisper:

“Choose, Harper. I'm not offering you mercy or some kind of partnership. You have a choice between two, and only two options: submit to me or end up in a place darker than any prison, where no one’s going to care how pretty or clever you are.”

She stared at him, breath hitching just enough to give her away—but not in fear. It was something else. A rush of anticipation, or maybe arousal, as if the power rolling off him in waves brushed against something raw and ready inside her. Her eyes darkened, and for one brief second, Reed swore she was imagining exactly what it would feel like to give in to everything he’d just threatened—and craving it.

Then she smiled. Not sweet. Not safe. A slow, sinful grin that curled at the corners like a dare and promised chaos with a kiss. It struck him low and hard, the heat pooling in his gut and surging straight to his cock. His control strained under the pressure of it—of her. Of what she was offering without saying a word. Not surrender. Not yet. But the potential of it. The possibility that she might kneel... if he earned it. And God help him, he wanted to earn every damn inch.

“Well,” she said. “When you put it like that… how could a girl resist?”

5

HARPER

Harper was going to get herself killed—or screwed into submission with the kind of discipline that made her toes curl just thinking about it. Possibly both, depending on how long she kept pushing Reed Malone. She had to be honest with herself—she was going to keep pushing. Poking the wolf with a sharp stick was practically in her DNA. But Reed? Reed didn’t bluff. He didn’t posture. He waited, measured, and struck when it counted. And some twisted part of her wanted to know exactly how hard he'd strike when she gave him reason.

She’d only been at his estate for six hours, and already she’d tested three locked doors just to see if his security matched his arrogance, borrowed a burner phone from a kitchen drawer to check for surveillance gaps, and slipped out onto a second-story balcony with an alarmed latch she’d disabled using a hairpin she'd tucked in her braid. Every step had been deliberate, designed not just to gather intel—but to provoke. If Reed Malone wanted control, she was going to make damn sure he had to earn it.

Honestly, it had been way too easy. And that unsettled her more than she’d expected. It wasn’t just the lack of resistancethat bothered her—it was the thrill. The clean, sharp hit of triumph that pulsed through her chest when each door gave way, when she felt him closing in. Like she’d summoned the storm on purpose. Like part of her wanted to be caught. That was the part she couldn’t quite explain to herself—and refused to admit to anyone else.

She didn’t even flinch when the footsteps behind her stopped—heavy, measured, and far too deliberate to be anyone but Reed. The sound of him approaching was like thunder decked out in leather, and it tightened something low in her belly. She knew that cadence now. Calculated. Controlled. A man used to making people tremble just by walking into a room. But Harper didn’t tremble. She braced. She waited. Because if he was going to make a move, she wanted to feel every bit of it coming.

“Want to explain what you’re doing, little thief?” His voice was all gravel and command.

She turned slowly, one eyebrow arched. “Fresh air.”

“You tripped the sensor in the east hallway. And that phone you took? Has a tracer in it.”

Harper grinned. “So you found me. Congratulations.”

Reed stepped closer, and her pulse kicked hard. There was a dangerous stillness about him—composed, but humming with restrained power she was beginning to crave. He wore worn jeans that hugged his hips with criminal intent and a dark henley stretched across his chest and arms like a challenge. The fabric clung in all the right places, outlining the hard planes of muscle, the silent strength that made her mouth go dry. Everything about him whispered of power, barely restrained—and the promise of what might happen if she pushed him just a little further.

He didn't touch her. Not yet. Just stood there, eyes locked on hers with an intensity that made her lungs forget how to work. Every second stretched, thick with tension, until the quiet wasn’tquiet at all—it was a pressure, a grip, a hand at her throat made of nothing but heat and anticipation. She felt it crawl up her spine, anchoring low and fierce in her belly. His silence wasn’t passive. His silence, precise and loaded like a blade at her neck, reminded her how sharp it could be without cutting.

“You want to play games, Harper?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Games suggest rules. You haven’t given me any.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” He stepped in until she had to tilt her head to hold his gaze. “I gave you one rule. Stay out of what isn’t yours. You broke it.”

“Technically, I borrowed it.”

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