Page 73 of The Contract

With the grace of a ninja, or a fucking ballerina, he sidesteps my attack and effortlessly sweeps my legs from under me. I land square on my ass.

His eyes hold mine hostage, arrogance personified. Dillon is me at my best. The casual, carefree bastard who always holds the upper hand.

And in this moment, everything I fucking hate, reflected back with intolerable glee.

He tsks. “You’re off your game, bro.” He swipes blood from his lip, smirking. “What’s wrong? Losing sleep over something?” His gaze sharpens. “Or someone?”

My jaw clenches, words trapped behind gritted teeth.

He continues. “Care to explain why Mateo’s at your bat cave cleaning up a tortured-man shish-kabob?”

I say nothing.

Dillon smirks, knowing exactly where to shove the knife and twist. “Let me guess—medium-rare fucktard ran his mouth about your girlfriend?”

“She’s not my fucking girlfriend,” I grind out, denial scraping my throat raw.

“Right.” Amusement curls up his cheek to an infuriating grin.

“It’s not about her,” I bite back, meeting his raised brow head-on. I double down because that’s what I do. “I have a mole,” I grit. “The flambé fuck all but confirmed it.”

“A mole conjured this level of wrath? Yeah, I don’t think so.” He leans down, tapping his temple smugly. “Twin brain, remember? I know you better than you know yourself. From your favorite flavor of self-sabotage to your depraved porn preferences.”

“Fine,” I snarl, forcing out the truth as comfortably as spitting splintered glass. “Maybe he mentioned Riley.”

“So, you’ve got it bad enough you’d kill for her. Interesting. Does this mean your dick finally works again, or is it still playing possum?”

My death glare hits him square in the face, razor-edged and murderous.

“Oh,” he drawls, smirk deepening, “it’s serious.”

I drop my head with a bitter laugh, rubbing the tension from the back of my neck.

“Yeah. Sure. Not that it fucking matters. I need distance—miles of it. Last thing Pom needs is my special brand of chaos burning her life to ashes.”

Dillon crosses his arms, smugness saturating every pore. “Funny way to keep your distance, man. You’re so wrapped around this girl, you’d sooner sever your nutsack than let her go.”

“One,” I growl, lifting a finger, “not all of us manage just fine without our nutsack, unlike you. And two,” I add another finger, voice roughening, “I don’t need complications. I need her gone.”

“And three,” Dillon flips me the bird, “you’re a fucking liar.” He flicks a business card toward me. “You wouldn’t have handed her breadcrumbs if you genuinely wanted her out of your life.”

He holds out his hand to help me up.

I clasp it, begrudgingly.

“Welp.” Dillon adjusts his sleeve with exaggerated flair. “Are you going after Riley, or am I?”

“What?”

“She’s hot, sweet, and can actually tell us apart from ten paces. The woman’s a keeper.” Dillon grins, utterly shameless. “And since I’m guessing an Eiffel Tower-type situationship is totally off the table, because neither of us knows how to fucking share…what? Rock, paper, scissors for her?”

“Only if your bedtime routine ends with my hands tightening around your neck.” Exasperation strips away the last scraps of my resistance.

Fuck it.

“Just…tell me where she is.”

“Exactly where forbidden fruit always is. Sitting on a pedestal, ripe and juicy and begging for the right person to take a bite.”

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