Page 96 of The Contract

You would have, if your dick hadn’t been so distracted.

Shut up.

Most security measures are in place, but not all.

A classic Declan move—fucked if I do, fucked if I don’t. Right up the goddamned ass.

My finger taps a slow, deliberate rhythm against my desk as I weigh my limited, shitty options.

They only need my club because they’re suddenly desperate for a neutral venue to host their little auction—since their original plans went spectacularly up in smoke.

Courtesy of an anonymous tip. FBI raid included.

You’re welcome.

And it worked. After months of blowing me off, I suddenly became the Keenan’s fucking ride-or-die.

For a price.

But I can’t just stand by and let Declan slap a diamond-studded leash around some poor, unsuspecting victim’s neck.

Can I?

Frustration boils beneath my skin. I lock it away behind the ironclad D’Angelo mask.

So many roads to hell.

Decisions, decisions…

Flicking a dismissive wave, I pair it with a bored shrug and a look that clearly says why the fuck are you still breathing my air?

“Your father and I have a deal. The club’s yours. But as for the necklace? Try the concierge.”

Declan bristles, face instantly darkening with rage. “I’m a Keenan,” he spits. “I don’t go through fucking concierges.”

My lips slowly curl into a smirk. “What’s the matter, Bráthair?” I taunt softly. “She already turn you down?”

Nostrils flared, his fists thrust skyward. It’s like watching a drunk demon toddler mid-tantrum. “She fed me some bullshit about ‘the woman chooses’… stupid cunt,” he snarls.

Interesting.

If daddy’s own concierge shot him down, they must still be scrubbing bloodstains from Declan’s last disaster.

The Keenans care about women’s safety about as much as they care about global warming and the tampon tax—which is to say, not at all. Clearly, Declan’s last fuckup bled their coffers far more than they’d prefer.

And if there’s one thing they do care about, it’s their money.

“You know I’m good for it,” Declan presses, his voice an irritating whine as he jabs a finger in my direction. “And I know you have one.”

Right on both counts.

Part of me wants to reason with him.

But the devil on my shoulder has a simpler take—the who gives a fuck? approach.

A Keenan’s debt is mine to wield.

To bend. To own. To exploit.

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