Page 49 of The Kingpin's Call Girl

“The Dragushas will want blood,” someone else says while he’s on the phone, and everybody is staring at Luka to see what he’ll say. “Lazarus could bring hell.”

Luka pops an olive into his mouth and chews leisurely, as though his only care is if the olive is up to his evil standards, and then he dabs the sides of his mouth. “Let the Dragushas have their blood. Let Lazarus bring his hell. Let there be chaos. We’ll revel in it and turn it to our advantage. We’ll use it to be stronger.”

The men beam at Luka. They love his brand of big talk.

“We’ll skewer the fucking world on the ends of our razor-sharp teeth,” he adds.

The men are so into it, I’m surprised they don’t all kiss his ring and roll around on the table in orgasmic pleasure.

I have to admit, it’s... weirdly impressive.

Is this stuff he learned at his military school? How to rally the troops?

Also,on the razor-sharp points of our teeth? Janey said their clan is called the Ghost Hound Clan. Was that Luka cleverly working in their name? A hound with big teeth? It’s so old school.

This whole experience—the nice suits, the luxurious meal, the casual violence—is like I’m in another world.

A bad world, I remind myself.

I’m not impressed.

Not impressed.

This man killed his own brother in such a brutal way Bender won’t even tell me.

Luka turns to me then, his voice dripping with brutality. “Let any man come after me or mine. I’ll rain hell on him like he’s never seen.”

Something like pleasure crashes over me. I shouldn’t love this kind of talk—I shouldn’t.

It’s just that nobody’s ever rained hell for me. Nobody would even consider it.

Luka just watches me. His devil-angel eyes are dazzling in the candlelight, and bits of silver twinkle in his inky hair like sparks of forbidden energy. He’s older than me and a zillion times more dangerous than any guy I’ve ever met, and he’d quietly rain hell on anybody who came after me.

I should look away.

This is not strength; it’s evil,I tell myself.Look away,I tell myself.

I can’t. I won’t.

His gaze is a palpable thing. Even without him touching me, I can feel it. It’s like he knows things about me. I’m used to being the bookish girl in the corner, unnoticed, unremarkable.

Nobody ever saw me. Until him.

His heavy hand returns to my thigh. Excitement bolts through me. My breath shallows.

“Let any man come into my territory or come after my people,” Luka growls, sliding closer to my quivering core. “Let him touch a hair on the head of anyone here, to eventhinkof taking what’s mine...” He doesn’t bother to finish the sentence.

He doesn’t have to.

He’s talking about me. His hand is electric with energy. I want him to touch me everywhere.

Dimly, I think I should distract myself. Eat some more, maybe, but I can’t think about my belly when my clit’s throbbing and his hand is so close to the needy ache between my legs.

I reach for my drink. I’m concentrating so hard on steadying my trembling hand that I fail to navigate properly and catch a wineglass, tipping it over.

Wine splashes across the table and onto the front of my pale pearl dress.

I jump up.

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