Page 152 of The Contract

One.

Riley.

Pom.

My undoing.

Even now, I’m hard. Again.

The forbidden fruit that has me so desperate, so fucking wrecked, I’d fuck a brick wall in the pouring rain if it gave me a single second of relief.

I suck in another breath, slow and deep, but it’s useless—she’s still there.

In my lungs. In my head. Crawling beneath my skin.

I need her gone. But now?

Nothing short of a bullet between my eyes and a tombstone etched Here Lies Dante could rip me away.

And maybe, not even then.

“Fuck,” I breathe, forcing down the aching heat in my pants as I pry my eyes open and risk a glance at my hands.

Clean. For now, at least.

The phantom blood from earlier vanished as fast as it appeared. But not the real shit.

Not the fresh crimson smeared across my knuckles, where bone shattered beneath my fists.

Not the raw, deep slice across the web of my left hand, courtesy of my own fucked-up miscalculation when I cut that goddamn necklace from Pom’s throat.

Pain slices deep as I flex my fingers, sharp and vivid, lighting every nerve on fire.

Detached, I watch the blood drip—like it’s not even my hand.

Tightening my fist sends fresh agony blazing through every nerve, reminding me to ease off—at least for a while.

Until a slick voice hits me like an icepick to the eardrum. “Drink?”

Uncle Andre.

My knuckles tighten reflexively, pain flooding in like an old friend.

Bring it the fuck on.

CHAPTER 52

Dante

Fucking Uncle Andre.

He stands there in a suit one size too small, seams screaming at the shoulders, cheap fabric worn thin and one thread shy of becoming car wash rags.

A lowball dangles loosely from his fingers, ice clinking softly, smirk dialed up to his usual level of practiced creep.

The glass he’s offering? Definitely slobbered over.

Or pissed in.

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