Page 34 of The Contract

“Dante?” I rasp, pushing up onto one elbow, trying to ignore the throb in my temples—or the fact that I’m swimming in sheets that smell suspiciously like sex.

He sips his coffee.

Then, without a word—in this weird, bizarrely casual way—he hands me the mug.

His mug.

The one he just drank from.

Like it’s normal.

Like any of this is.

And, let’s face it. I’ve got zero pride. Zero fight. And zero fucks left to give.

Frankly, I’m dying for a cup.

So yeah—I take it.

I savor a long sip, avoiding his eyes that drag down my body, then back up, slow and assessing.

A frown pulls at the corners of his already gloom-and-doom façade. The grim reaper in designer clothes.

“You want to tell me what you’re doing here?”

That voice.

Still low. Still edged like a blade tucked behind his teeth.

I blink up at him, brain foggy and uncooperative.

Not hungover.

Just scattered. Like puzzle pieces flung out the window of a car going 80 miles an hour.

I take a long sip of possibly the best coffee of my life and glance around the room.

The claustrophobic brick walls from last night feel less suffocating today. Even without a shred of sunlight creeping in.

Still the same cage.

But warmer somehow. Because of my Russian captor.

Which is probably worse.

“What are you doing here, Riley?”

Riley.

I roll my eyes. I hate the way he says my name—crossing the threshold between seduction and something he wants to wash out of his mouth.

My throat’s dry. Probably because I really don’t want to answer that question.

Another jolt of caffeine is all it takes to remember that it’s none of Dante’s goddamn business what I’m doing here.

“What I’m doing here?” I snatch a thick, golden chunk of fried chicken from the plate and take a bite, waving the crispy goodness at his arrogant face. “What are you doing here?”

Yes, exactly. Keep him on the defensive.

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