Page 2 of The Lasso Master

“I’m sorry,” Harper said, all wide-eyed sugar. “It’s just that Barroco made only ten pieces in that collection before he died. Five are still missing. I’m a bit of a nerd about antiquities.”

The Dom’s lip curled. “And a bit of a brat, it seems.”

That’s when the air behind her shifted, silent and certain, like a predator deciding the moment to strike. Not rushed. Not loud. Just a subtle rearranging of air and energy that made the tiny hairs on the back of her neck snap to attention. She didn’t need to look to know it was him. The atmosphere thickened with awareness, the kind that made people freeze mid-step and forget why they were walking.

Theman—the one who’d been watching—stepped forward with quiet authority, the kind that didn’t shout but still made the room hold its breath. The Dom immediately straightened like a soldier under inspection. Harper didn’t turn around. She didn’t have to. Shefelthim behind her—tall, dangerous, and with a kind of presence that filled a space without asking for permission. It wasn’t just awareness; it was weight. Command. And it settled on her shoulders like an invisible rope, tightening.

“Is she yours?” the Dom asked.

A pause. Just long enough to be unsettling.

“Not yet,” came the voice. Deep. Steady. Smooth as aged bourbon and twice as dangerous. “But she seems to need correction.”

Harper turned slowly. Met his eyes—dark, unreadable, and impossible to look away from.

And then it hit her. Recognition.

Reed Malone. The Reed Malone. Her breath caught, and for a split second, her carefully curated mask almost slipped. She knew that face. That presence. Billionaire oil heir, ex-SEAL, co-founder of Silver Spur Security, and one of the founding owners of the Iron Spur. The one they called The Lasso Master because of his skill with ropes. He wasn’t just club royalty—he was the man whose name sent waves through Texas high society and underground circles alike. A ghost with a reputation for cleaning up the dirtiest secrets, usually at a price you didn’t survive.

He wasn’t supposed to be here tonight.Her heart didn’t just hiccup—it damn near choked. Because if anyone in this club could read her for what she really was, it was him.

“And you’re volunteering?” she asked, dryly. “How very kind of you.”

His smile was slow and tight. “You’re playing a game you don’t understand, little thief.”

Her heart hiccuped.Shit.That word echoed through her brain like a warning siren—too late, too loud, too true. He wasn’t bluffing. He knew something. And worse, he was calm about it. Dangerous men got loud when they were emotional. Deadlier ones got quiet. This man? He was silent—and watching her like he was already choosing where to sink the blade.

“I’m just admiring jewelry,” she said, lifting her chin.

“You’re casing my club.” His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. “And you just stepped into a scene uninvited. That has consequences at the Iron Spur, but then you would know from signing the consensual contract that allows you to play here."

"Funny," Harper said lightly. “That’s what all my exes used to say. Right before I showed them differently.”

His expression didn’t change. But his eyes? They flared—just a flicker. Interest. Amusement. Danger. And something darker.

“I’m not one of your exes.”

“Yet,” she said, meeting him head-on. “You’re worse. You’re the type who doesn’t raise his voice when he’s about to ruin someone.”

He leaned in just enough that her breath hitched. “Tell me your safe word, Harper Langston. I’m going to need it.”

Her stomach dropped—and then curled, slow and low, like heat licking at the edges of control. Awareness pulsed in her core—equal parts adrenaline and arousal. She hated that it turned her on, this sharp edge of danger. Hated more that she wanted to know how far he'd push her. Her body betrayed her beforeher mind could catch up, nipples tightening beneath lace, thighs tensing with anticipation. This man didn’t flirt. Hepromised.And Harper’s body was listening.

“Is this the part where you drag me off for punishment?” she asked, with what she hoped sounded like breathless amusement.

“No,” he said evenly. “This is the part where I give you a choice.”

He offered his hand—not with a smile or a coaxing word, but with a commanding stillness that radiated purpose. Not for politeness. Not for play. For submission. It was an invitation wrapped in dominance, a dare laced in silk. A single gesture that said,You know what this is. Take it, and you’re mine until I say otherwise.

“Give me your safe word and come with me. Now. Or I’ll have security escort you out. Either way, the game’s over.”

Harper stared at him. The crowd watched like they were waiting for her to either rise or fall, and at the Dom whose necklace she’d nearly gotten herself flogged over—and who now looked vaguely smug, like he'd enjoy seeing her squirm. But all of that faded to background static.

Because the only thing she could really see was the man in front of her. The weight of his hand still extended, his gaze steady, his promise unmistakable.

Her pulse thundered in her ears. Every nerve felt exposed, humming with anticipation and something far more dangerous. She was in over her head. And damned if she didn’t want to dive deeper, anyway.

She took his hand.

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