Page 6 of Bad Girl Dilemma

Not the man who knew exactly what kind of deviant little secret she was hiding behind that screen. Not the one who reverse-engineered her location using the very app she used toget off anonymously. Not the man who studied her browsing habits on The Club app and read her filthy, aching little wish list like it was a love letter to her own undoing.

She has no idea who she’s dealing with. How long I’ve been waiting.

For today.

For her.

CHAPTER 3

Dahlia

His goons drag me into some kind of private elevator—luxury, glass, too clean for blood but not for power. My wrists are still bound. The gag’s gone, but my mouth is dry. I haven't said a word.

I won’t give him the satisfaction of my voice or my begging.

Dante O’Driscoll stands inches from me, tall and silent in his black-on-black suit, watching me the way a wolf might watch a dying deer: amused, lazily stretching out the time before delivering the death blow.

His presence is… overwhelming.

It’s not just that he’s gorgeous—though he is. More beautiful than any man should be, all sharp cheekbones and dark stubble and sinful lips that probably only curl when he’s breaking something. Or someone.

It’s thestillnessthat makes my pulse skitter. The contained threat.

Like he’s constantly calculating which bone to break first.

The elevator dings. We’re in a penthouse. His, if my research jibes with what I’ve seen of the interior. Walls of glass, city lights glittering like weapons outside, thrown back by the Hudson River. Clean modern furniture. Brutalist edges. Expensive, ill-gotteneverything.

The burly men sporting terrifying bulges under their jackets drop me into a leather chair, tie me up again and leave.

He stays. Says nothing for a long time.

Just walks around me in a slow circle, the predator studying his prey. The silence is brutal. Designed to make me squirm.

I don't. But I want to.

I remind myself that I’ve dealt with a thousand variations of dark power and the evil it exudes.

Okay, so maybe notthislevel of concentrated power. The kind that urges me to celebrate my every breath because it may be my last.

He stops before me. Cants his head ever so fractionally.

Then he speaks again. Finally. “You’ve been very busy, little thief. Causing merry mayhem here, there and everywhere.”

His voice is low, dark honey with a razored edge. It scrapes down my spine like the strike of a match, setting little fires everywhere.

I clench my jaw as those black eyes drill into mine. “Do you know how many times I watched you?”

Shit. I say nothing.

I’m hot defiance and righteous rage and I’m not shy about announcing it. Non-vocally. I’ve found in the past that works like a dream.

He leans in, voice just for me. “Since your very first heist. The first time, you took down the Navarro family. I watched your livestream from my office. Thought it was a prank. By the third one, I started tracing your data. I knew your coding style. Sloppy in a charming way. Proud. Brash.”

Fuck you.

He smirks. “By the fifth, I started to dream about you.”

Umm. What? My skin prickles.

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