Page 38 of The Contract

Whatever. I’ll track down my panties—and any surviving fragments of dignity—later.

Right now, I have exactly one priority: get the hell out of here.

Shower. Dress. Go.

Now that Dante’s so kindly revealed exactly where I am, all I need is twenty minutes and Mr. Sleep-Deprived to pass out for his morning siesta.

Then, I’m gone.

CHAPTER 9

Riley

“If our paths cross again, I’ll take more than a kiss.”

The words slam into me—I wake with a jolt.

I sit up, breath tight in my chest, shirt damp, sheets tangled around my legs.

It wasn’t a nightmare. Or, a fantasy.

Not this time.

I drag myself into the kitchen, pour a glass from the tap, and gulp until the chill cuts down the center of me. Which still doesn’t help.

Because for the first time since I was nine, I don’t need a nightlight to make my way through the dark.

No.

The big, burly Russian cured me of that. Nearly a week ago.

What I can’t wrap my thick head around though is why, when those words rip me awake night after night, it’s never Zver’s face I see.

It’s Dante’s.

All sharp edges, towering dominance, eyes dark enough to carve straight through every defense I’ve ever dared to build.

This man whispers threats and promises in the same breath—words velvet-soft yet lethally edged.

And don’t even get me started on that hair. Thick, savage waves that practically plead to be gripped, twisted, and claimed between my fingers.

I chug the rest of the water like it can drown the image.

Maybe it’s because I never saw Zver’s face. Just the shadow of him. The weight of him. Maybe my brain’s filling in the blanks, splashing watercolors across an empty canvas until it turns into something—someone—I recognize.

Or maybe some twisted part of me wants it to be Dante.

I shake my head, the thought sour in my mouth.

Jesus, Riley. Get a grip.

My finger drags lazy circles around the rim of my glass, tapping restlessly as my brain spins through another round of mental Russian roulette.

Dante.

Zver.

Dante.

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