Page 144 of The Contract

With all the grace and subtlety of a regency heroine smuggling a dagger into a ballroom, my hand slips beneath my skirt—fingers hunting blindly for cold steel.

For courage.

And find…

Nothing.

My stomach crashes through the floor, shattering on impact.

The knife is gone.

Pure, savage dread rushes up my throat, choking me. Then, a flash of silver glints between us.

“Looking for this?” His voice is too soft, too deadly.

He flips the knife, spinning it lazily before pressing the blade against my throat.

“Was this your plan, Pom? Kill me…or die trying?”

The blade kisses my throat with cruel intimacy—featherlight and mercilessly precise. Not enough to break skin, but enough to remind me exactly what I am.

Useless.

Fragile.

Pathetic.

A single tear carves a humiliating path down my cheek, acid-hot against my skin.

God, not a soul knows I’m here. No one would even know where to look for the corpse.

Still, I jerk my chin higher, refusing to fucking cower. “You think you scare me?”

His lips curl slowly, lethal edges sharpening, all smirk and menace. “No, Pom. I think you want me to.”

My eyes blaze, humiliation and fury locked in a vicious battle beneath my lashes—because goddamn him…he’s right.

But I put a pin in that shameful truth, blink away the traitorous tears, and shove it aside. “I just want to know why. Why my sister? What twisted leverage are you holding over her head to make her marry your sick fuck of a brother? Just fucking tell me.”

He doesn’t answer. He’s too busy sliding cold steel along my breasts.

Dante’s voice dips low, each syllable pulsing in perfect rhythm with the vicious drumbeat in my chest.

“Why not ask her yourself?”

A flood of tears surges behind my eyes, bitter and furious, because I know my sister too damn well. She’ll lie straight to my face. Without hesitation. Without remorse.

Just like Da, protecting me always comes first for her. Goddamnit, it’s my turn to protect her.

But I’m not telling him that. I won’t give him that satisfaction. Not now, not ever.

The confession tears from me, raw and broken. “I can’t.”

“Careful, little girl. Martyrs break the prettiest. Shatter for me, Pom, and I’ll devour every fucking second.”

Humiliation scalds my skin, branding my cheeks as every scrap of dignity bleeds away. My breath shudders out in ragged bursts, eyes fluttering shut. Because if he keeps going…

The darkest, filthiest part of me can’t decide if I’m trembling from terror or if I’m sick enough—twisted enough—to want to see just how far he’ll take it.

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