Page 59 of The Contract

“That’s why you’re here, right?” My new bestie asks.

Hmm. An audition would be my best shot at getting a closer look inside. I can just slip away from the pack once I’m in. I nod. “Right. Of course.”

A nervous giggle yanks me out of my Dante-centered hamster wheel. The bubbly girl shifts anxiously beside me, eyes widening as the line inches forward. “Oh, I’m Mila.”

“Riley.”

My eyes catch on the angry purple bruise blooming along Mila’s upper arm.

A bruise I know all too well.

Jimmy the Jerk Step-monster’s favorite spot to grab me. Hard enough to hurt, hidden enough to keep me out of the ER. It’s the reason I spent every sweltering Chicago summer hiding beneath long sleeves.

Mila shifts, rubbing the spot absently.

“Arnica gel helps,” I say quietly. “Ice too, if you can stand it.”

Her eyes widen, darting nervously to mine. Shame flickers briefly before she swallows it back, whispering softly, “It’s why I need this job. I—I can’t go back.”

My chest tightens.

“Next!”

The crisp snap of the woman’s clap cuts through our introductions.

The red head is sophisticated, her hair swept into an elegant chignon. Older, but not by much.

She’s moved through the line in record time with no-bullshit efficiency. It might even be impressive if her merciless gaze hadn’t just zeroed in on me.

Me, with my messy ponytail, suffocating dress, and of course, the shoes.

Her brows slowly relax, judgment giving way briefly to curiosity. Lips parting in careful consideration.

“ID?” she snaps, extending a perfectly manicured hand. Her fingers wiggle impatiently.

My stomach knots. “I forgot it,” I lie, clutching my purse tighter, feeling my ID burning a hole inside.

Her gaze narrows skeptically, sweeping down my body again. “Fine—for now. You’ll need it before performing. Experience?”

Does dancing around my bedroom in underwear to Beyoncé count?

“Um—”

“I’ve got this one,” interrupts a man’s voice. A low, velvet rasp layered thickly with quiet arrogance and barely-restrained frustration.

Slowly, dreadfully, I lift my gaze, even though I already know exactly who is.

Dante.

His expression is pure lickable scruff and brooding intensity. A faint ghost of a dimple threatens to surface, and for a reckless, heart-stopping second, I wonder if it will.

But that would require him to actually smile, so hard no.

His dark denim jeans and crisp blue T-shirt amplify every lethal detail—the icy gleam in his eyes, the serpent inked on his left bicep, the barely restrained power rippling beneath his skin.

This man slices through my flimsy bravado as easily as the Titanic through an iceberg.

Fingers curl around my elbow, gentle yet possessive, as he pulls me aside. Murmurs ripple behind us, curiosity buzzing down the line.

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