Page 126 of The Contract

My head shakes slowly. Violet Sorrengail, meet the Threshing. May the weakest bleed first.

Her wrist flicks subtly—so casually I almost miss it—but something about that tiny motion screams armed security or hidden emergency button.

Dread ignites in my chest, sharp and instant.

Because if dumbass gets tossed, my ass is hitting pavement right next to his.

Heat floods my veins, a ruthless boil threatening to overflow.

No way in hell did I cram my Hobbit feet into sadistic doll shoes, freeze my tits off in line for half an eternity, and let this jackass brand my backside with his sweaty paw print only to leave empty-handed.

Not. Fucking. Happening.

The words slip past my lips before self-preservation can clamp them shut.

“Colors…what are my options?”

Without speaking, she tilts her chin—directing my gaze to the delicate choker hugging her throat.

A sleek, jeweled band sparkles in the flickering candlelight, glistening.

Blood red. Fiery orange. Soft blush pink. An icy diamond splintering the light like fractured glass. Deep ocean blue. Rich, decadent emerald…

And at its center—black. Dark as sin. Tempting as a midnight whispers.

I’ve never considered myself materialistic—mostly because I’ve never had shit worth wanting—but right now?

I can’t find my voice.

They say shiny things cast voodoo hexes on girls like me. But for the first time in my life, I’m struck stupid-silent. Overwhelmed.

Spellbound.

I have the weirdest suspicion these colors represent something. And for all I know, picking black lands me in an underground fight club, battling gladiator-style for survival.

Or worse—limits my tequila consumption.

I sweep the room again, casually, hunting desperately for a clue. A cheat sheet that tells me exactly which color keeps me breathing and well within the comfortable boundaries of drunk and disorderly.

Nothing.

Sure, I could ask.

Given tonight’s stellar track record, that’d probably earn me a one-way ticket straight back to freezing my ass off outside with Chicago’s grizzliest bouncer.

So… yeah. Maybe not.

Once more, all five-foot-six of smug entitlement decides to make his presence known. Again.

“You’re making a mistake,” he spits. “Do you know who I am?”

Great.

Because my night wouldn’t be complete without some dickhead dropping the “Do you know who I am?” card.

Completely unfazed, she smooths an invisible wrinkle from her barely-there bodice, not the slightest bit ruffled by his chest-puffing bullshit.

“Who you are is irrelevant,” she purrs sweetly. “That you follow the rules is.” Her voice turns silk over razor wire. “Step out of line, and I’ll have two armed guards drag you out by your nutsack—or put a bullet straight through that thick skull of yours.” She punctuates her threat with a wicked wink. “Dealer’s choice.”

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