Page 81 of The Contract

If the client doesn’t want me, they fucking sell me?

Auction me off like some luxury car?

Or worse, a goddamn Pokémon card?

Anger scorches up my spine, igniting every nerve ending. But beneath it simmers something sharper.

Deeper.

Love.

Love for my sister.

Love strong enough to burn this world to the ground—starting with the D’Angelos.

Fine.

If the devil wants me on a silver platter, I’ll give him an eight-course meal. And I hope the fucker chokes.

In a bold, defiant, and thoroughly pissed-off flourish, I find the Preferences section and unleash a tidal wave of romance-book filth onto the page. Every dark fantasy, forbidden trope, and morally questionable kink I’ve ever pretended I didn’t highlight.

Shit on my e-reader I’d deny under oath.

This isn’t Fifty Shades—it’s Fifty Shades times ten thousand.

If Dante thinks he’s ready for this, he better buckle the hell up.

My pen scratches furiously across the pages, Raja’s eyes widening incrementally with each explicit detail. Her carefully polished facade fractures again, cheeks tinting the faintest shade of pink.

If Dante thinks he knows what he’s signed up for, game fucking on.

Raja collects every last page, her composure struggling to snap back into place. She gestures stiffly toward the sleek black satin garment bag hanging ominously in the corner, zipped tight.

An early Christmas gift I can’t wait to desecrate.

“I’ll just get dressed.” My voice drips with sugary venom.

Her mouth parts slightly, faltered smile wobbling at the edges. “I’ll…let the client know.”

You do that.

CHAPTER 25

Dante

I’m barely hanging on to this conversation.

Cormac Keenan’s voice grates like rusted screws twisting through bone. “You want this deal, gasúr, then I run the shots.”

And his old-school Gaelic jab—roughly translating to ‘boy’ but layered thick with disrespect—isn’t fucking lost on me.

My grip tightens on the phone, and I try not to crush it like the last one.

I’m after an alliance. A foothold on territory. And answers. But even I have limits. “You call the shots,” I seethe out. “For one night.”

“I want my concierge,” he adds casually, the demand heavy enough to break bones.

It lands hard, cornering me. He thinks he’s got me over on a barrel. Not even close.

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