Page 38 of Arrogant Puck

The apartment is still empty. I’m relieved. Sometimes I swear Emma wants to sleep with me, and while I’m all for open-mindedness, I’m not interested in that kind of confusion under my roof. Or inside my home where I’m supposed to be comfortable and safe.

Just as I grab my phone, another text comes through. My stomach feels like it flips inside out as flashes of the videos they took of me that night. How they humiliated me with them.

My gut wrenches at the thought as I look at the screen, expecting to see another threat.

Riley: Hey. Can you come in? Won’t take long.

I sigh. Thank God. It’s my day off, but I need something to ignore the flashing images in my head of that night.

Riley’s office smells like burnt coffee and industrial lemon. Riley leans back in his chair when I walk in, nodding toward the seat across from him.

“So,” he says, “how’d it go with Slater?”

I keep my face neutral. “Fine.”

“That’s it?”

“He’s not exactly warm and fuzzy.”

He raises a brow like he’s waiting for more. I hold the line.

Riley sighs. “Look, Sage. I know he’s a hard ass. But he needs help. If he doesn’t let one of us in soon, he’s going to wreck himself.”

I nod. I say nothing.

“You’re a good fit for this job,” he continues. “You’ve got something that works. People open up to you.”

I shift in my chair, not knowing where he’s going with that. “I’m just doing my job.”

“Pretty privilege is a real thing,” he says, like we’re talking about the weather. “Doesn’t hurt when people want to look at you. It’s proven that people trust you faster.”

I tense. He means it as a compliment, I think. Maybe he doesn’t even realize how it sounds. But it lands wrong. And now the weight of text messages on my phone feels heavier now. Am I only their target because of my face? Nothing else?

“It’s not a compliment,” I say, swallowing.

“It’s a tool,” he counters. “Use it.”

I nod like that makes sense. Like I agree.

I’m halfway out the door when I nearly slam into a wall of broad chest and familiar attitude.

Slater.

My blood crawls feeling him against me. I’m already shaken from the texts, and now this. I have no time for this.

He’s leaning against the wall like he’s been waiting.

“Reporting me?” he asks, voice low and close.

I shiver but don’t flinch. “I lied to him.”

That smirk curves across his mouth. “Good girl.”

“Don’t praise me.”

Two steps, and I’m against the wall. His hand is at my throat again—warm, heavy, not hurting, but reminding me exactly what he’s capable of. My heart spikes.

“This more like it?” he murmurs, mouth inches from mine.

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