Page 13 of The Lasso Master

"Both."

She stared at him. Silent. Then: "I was running a different job. Not artifact-related. I wasn’t working with whoever this is. But I knew that place. Knew they used girls like me to lure in rich perverts with questionable ethics."

"And you played along."

"I got out before it got messy."

He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. "You ever think maybe you didn’t? Maybe it just got quiet."

The words sat between them, heavier than he'd meant them to be. He didn't look away, but a muscle jumped in his jaw. It wasn’t just an accusation. It was a fear—one he hated giving voice to. Because if he was wrong about her, about what sheknew or didn’t, the cost wouldn’t just be hers. It would be his too. And that realization landed harder than he expected.

Her eyes narrowed, and the tension crackled again, that familiar snap of challenge and heat. But underneath it now was something colder. Not just fear—something sharper. Like she was bracing for a betrayal she’d predicted but hoped wouldn’t come. Reed had seen that look before. In war zones. In interrogations. On faces that had learned to swallow pain before it could surface. It stirred something primal in him. Protective. Dangerous. Focused?

"What are you really asking me, Reed?"

"If you’re being hunted. Or used. Or both."

She didn’t answer. Her gaze stayed locked on the photo, but her posture turned rigid, shoulders curling inward slightly—like she needed to contain something volatile rising in her chest. Her fingers tightened around the edge of the paper, not trembling, but bracing, like she wanted to tear it down the center just to hear something break. Reed watched the tempest gather behind her eyes, and he knew—this wasn’t just a memory. This was guilt. Or grief. Or fury. And maybe all three.

He stood and crossed the room with the kind of deliberate calm that made a person forget how fast he could move when it mattered. His boots were silent on the hardwood, but every step felt like it echoed. Harper watched him come, tension rippling off her like heat, wary but unflinching. Her chin lifted the slightest bit, like she refused to give him the satisfaction of looking away. There was steel in her spine, fire in her stillness. She wore her fear like polished, sharp-edged armor.

He reached down, took her chin between thumb and forefinger, and tilted her face up. "You want to keep running headfirst into danger, Harper, that’s your choice. But in my house, under my watch, I decide how we bleed. Clear?"

Her breath hitched. "Crystal."

"Good. Because we’re not dealing with a one-off job anymore. We’re dealing with a damn network. One that likes girls who look a lot like you and buyers who think they’re entitled to more than submission."

Her voice dropped. "Then it’s a good thing I know how to bite."

Reed smiled. Not gentle. Not soft. Wolfish. The kind of smile that cut deeper than it soothed. "It’s a better thing that I know how to leash and muzzle."

The air between them thickened. Harper’s breath caught, just slightly, and her thighs shifted where she stood, tension crackling beneath her skin. The space suddenly felt smaller, tighter—like the walls were pressing in to listen. Reed didn’t move, didn’t need to. His presence filled the room, coiled and potent, and she felt every ounce brush against her restraint.

She flushed, the color creeping up her neck in a slow, damning wave—but she didn’t look away. Her eyes stayed locked on his, wide and defiant, like she was daring him to make something of the reaction she couldn’t hide. It wasn’t embarrassment. It was voltage—hot and sharp, pulsing just beneath the surface.

"So what’s the play, boss man?" she asked, folding her arms.

"The play is we bait the trap. We find out who’s behind this and burn them to ash."

"You mean I play the lure. Again."

"Not alone."

Her brows lifted. "What, we go in as a couple?"

He leaned in, mouth grazing her ear. "We go in as Master and submissive. Public. Documented. Exclusive."

She shivered. "You sure you’re not just looking for an excuse to collar me in public?"

He pulled back and met her eyes. "Sweetheart, I don’t need an excuse. I need your consent. And your trust. Everything else I already own."

Her pupils flared. Her voice went low. "Then get ready, boss man. Because if we’re doing this, we’re going in deep. No masks. No holding back."

"Exactly how I like it," he murmured, his voice a velvet threat. The line between strategy and seduction had blurred, and they both knew it. For a second, neither moved. Then his gaze dropped—slow, deliberate—to her mouth. "This part of the mission? I’ve been ready for that since the moment you weaseled your way into my club."

She arched an eyebrow, lips curving. "Please. I walked in with style. No weaseling involved. Ferreted, maybe. At worst."

Outside, in the distance, a low rumble of thunder rolled across the hills, like the earth itself was clearing its throat before something irreversible. The air had that charged, metallic stillness that warned of a storms not yet arrived—but inevitable. A warning. A promise. And somewhere inside, Reed felt it echo.

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