Page 125 of The Contract

Roman knows I’ve outmaneuvered him—again.

That twisted look on his face?

It’s the sweet agony of a man choking on his pride, forced to swallow the fact that he needs me far more than I’ll ever need him.

And that probably burns hotter than his cheap prison ink—or the scorching reminder of last year’s STD scare.

Yeah, the shit I wish I didn’t fucking know.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have somewhere to be.” I don’t bother with handshakes or hollow smiles. Those rituals died with my father. They didn’t save him, and they sure as fuck won’t save me.

Blood. Fear. Ruthless fucking power. That’s how I rule. For now, at least.

As soon as I’m out the door, I lose my tie and rip open the top buttons of my shirt.

Now that shitshow’s done, there’s no use pretending the blood wasn’t dripping from my hands the entire goddamn time—or that my life isn’t seconds away from a spectacular, fiery c’est la vie, mother fuckers.

Demons never die quietly.

And neither do I.

CHAPTER 43

Riley

Now, I’m no rocket scientist, but if this douche-canoe’s hell-bent on me wearing black, guess exactly which fucking color I’m not choosing?

The words are right there, ready to launch from my lips, but it turns out, I don’t even have to waste my breath.

The bouncer outside caved in seconds. But the barely-dressed hostess? Doesn’t bend. At all.

Her spine straightens, smile slipping into something cold—venom pooling beneath perfect skin.

And since the imprint of his filthy hand is still searing into my ass, trust me, I’m intimately acquainted with that particular flavor of rage.

Her voice drips syrup-slow, lethal sweetness sharpened to a knife’s edge, as jade eyes slide contemptuously from him to lock onto mine.

“You came with him?” Her tone curls mockingly around the words. “Or did he come with you?”

Huh?

Seriously, what is this—freaking riddles hour? Where’s Google Translate when I need it most?

“She came with me,” he cuts in sharply.

Inwardly, I cringe.

It’s impressive, really—how every single word in such a short sentence can be so, so wrong.

Her smile slides smoothly back into place, but for a single, vicious heartbeat, raw satisfaction flickers across her features as she pins him with those lethal jade eyes.

“Then it’s her call. Not yours.”

Checkmate, asshole.

“I said she wants black,” he growls again—louder, angrier, as if volume alone can force compliance. As if we’re not all standing three feet apart.

The woman doesn’t even blink.

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