Page 27 of Inside the Sun

Rocco’s hand grabs my waist, iron-hard. He yanks me close in one swift, almost violent move.

We’re about the same height. Our eyes lock. I can smell the alcohol on his breath.

"You’re being invited to The Sun," he says, his voice rough like two stones grinding together. "I’m here on Anzo’s behalf."

"Oh, thank you," I say lightly. "Does the invite include Martin?"

"It’s for you. Just you." His face doesn’t twitch.

I catch his scent, and it hits me instantly, we’re a genetic mismatch. Incompatible. It’s got that metallic edge, sharp and off-putting. Sure, it’s usually alphas and omegas who pick up on those pheromonal cues, but I’ve trained myself to notice that buzz, that subtle charge that tells me whether I’ll click with someone or not. Technically, compatibility isn’t supposed to matter between alphas since we can’t reproduce with each other, but it still says a lot.

"So this fortress of yours… is that the one no one gets into? And when they do, they never come out?" I flash a provocative smile.

"That’s the one. Think twice before saying yes."

I go still. Is he joking? Or is this some fucked-up mafia version of humor?

"How super inviting," I say dryly. "Gotta admit, after that creepy sales pitch, I’m not exactly feeling convinced."

Rocco’s expression doesn’t change. He stares somewhere over my shoulder.

"One million dollars. It’ll be in your account. In return, you spend one weekend at The Sun."

I blink.

Yep. Like I said, I’m not here for the money. A million dollars just so some old mobster can wreck my ass, and who knows what else. Guys like that have… unique tastes, to say the least. So no. Not tempted.

"No thanks," I say with a smirk. "I only fuck my boyfriends. I guess I’m just… old-fashioned like that."

Rocco narrows his eyes just slightly. Then he lets go of me and steps back.

"Have a good evening."

And… he walks away. Doesn’t say another word. Doesn’t insist.

I smile faintly. Do I play a game here? Well, maybe. The thrill of a game is what breaks the boredom.

And besides, hell no, I’m not selling myself cheap. When you start handing out the goods to just anyone, the value tanks. Guys like the chase. They crave it. Gotta give it to them. Otherwise, where’s the fun?

Life’s taught me: knowing how to say ‘no’ often gets you the biggest, loudest ‘yes’ in the end.

Martin reappears beside me.

"I took the liberty of eavesdropping on your subtle little convo," he growls.

"And? You happy with how I handled it?"

He hesitates. "Well, I’m a little surprised. For a million bucks, I probably would’ve said yes."

I scoff. "And that’s where we’re different. It’s not about the money. It’s just…" I trail off, thoughts drifting to open roads, the sky above, wind on my face. "It’s not everything I want out of life."

"Oh really? Sounds like bullshit. Why’ve you never dated a broke guy?" Martin shoots back. "What’d you have, ten boyfriends? And none of their daddies had less than seven figures in the bank."

I stare at him, jaw clenched.

In fact, I did date a broke guy once. Best relationship I ever had. Dogger was a kid from the trailer park who joined a gang just to survive.

"There weren’t that many," I mutter. "But you’re right. None were poor. It might look like on the outside that’s all I care about, but it’s not."

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