Page 33 of Nest of Thieves
I storm toward him, frowning when he kicks his shoe off.
What the fuck?
Is he helping me torture him?
Does he want me to do it?
Regardless, I sit in front of him and take his sock off. His toenails are manicured, not in theI went to a salon and sat for an hoursort of way, but enough that it’s clear he takes care of his feet. No gross yellowing, too-long toenails. His feet don’t even smell.
Asshole.
I lift my gaze from his toes and startle a little at how intently he’s watching me. I lift the pliers and snap them a few times.
“Where’s the ring?” I grab his big toe, noting the lack of sweat covering his skin, and grip the end of his nail with the tool. “Don’t make me do this,” I say, mimicking what he’d said to me in Edmund’s home.
He didn’t want to kill me.
I don’t want to rip his nail out. They’re too pretty. Can feet be pretty? If they can be, his are. My pulse thunders in my ears. Mac doesn’t try to say anything. I growl and toss the pliers aside, reaching up to frisk him. Maybe he has something on him with their address. I run my palm over his front pockets and he lifts his hips a little.
“Bad, Mac Daddy. No hand jobs for you.” I swat his crotch, not hard enough to hurt him but pointed enough to make him recoil. I snicker and slip his phone and wallet out of his pocket. “Let’s see what you have for me.”
Not much, honestly. A few cards. His ID, which has to be a fake. There’s no way Mac’s name is actually Cornelius.
“Nothing helpful.” I squint at him and toss the leather wallet onto his crotch.
His chest rumbles, but it’s not a warning growl. There’s a massive bulge in his pants as I slip off his lap. My stomach does a little flip of excitement. Mac likes it rough. I’d be lying if I said that didn’t excite me.
No, Jo. You’re here to get the ring and get out. You can find good dick somewhere else. With someone less unhinged. It doesn’t matter that you like how mad he is. It doesn’t matter that his smirk makes your stomach flip.
With that thought propelling me, I move to Vette. He’s pissed and muttering at me in Spanish. His refreshing orange scent has a hint of cinnamon anger. He smells like my favorite tea. My mouth waters, but I resist the temptation to lick his skin and see how he tastes.
He says something again in Spanish.Something, something, bruja.
I know that word.
Witch.
“I’m flattered. I’m not cool enough to be a bruja. I definitely would have hexed you by now.” I pat him down. He has a wallet but no phone. An ID—probably a fake too—and a couple hundred in cash along with a fancy Amex. I pocket the cash and tuck the wallet back into his pocket, leaning toward him to whisper in his ear. “It’s nothing personal, Vette. Just business.” I nudge the side of his head with my nose and move to straddle Lark.
His scent is a different sort of refreshing. Soothing and calming with hints of jasmine and lavender. He watches me with steady and intuitive green eyes. I look away and focus on patting him down. His wallet is attached to his phone but, again, nothing with an address. With a heavy sigh, I meet his gaze.
“I need that ring. You don’t understand what you’ve done.” I tap the screen of his phone and hold it up to his face. The recognition software doesn’t work with the gag. I didn’t think it would, but I had to try.
Lark’s big hands land on my thighs. They’re warm and strong.
Wait.
I scramble off of him, and before he can remove the gag, I scoop up my stun gun from the ground where I’d left it and race out of the warehouse. By the time he shouts for me, I’m too far away to feel the full effects of his alpha bark. My feet slow slightly, but I force my body to resist. I grind to a stop halfway to the gate, cursing and changing course, racing toward one of the cars parked in the employee lot on the side of the shop. A sleek BMW would be my first choice, but the doors are locked.
Breathing heavily, I glance over my shoulder. Lark must be letting his friends out. I’m on borrowed time. I round the hood of the Beamer and tug at the handle of a bright red Nissan GT-R. This one is unlocked.
Time to go.
I hop in and slam the door, buckling the seatbelt. Safety first when you’re escaping at high speeds. There are two garage openers on the visor. My money is on one of those being for the gate. If not, I’m fucked. I open and close compartments, searching for the keys. A gun in the glove box. I set it on the seat and open the center console.
“You stupid asshole,” I mutter about whoever owns the car. A key chain with three keys sits inside. I shove the first key into the ignition and turn it. The Nissan surprises me with an impressive rumble of an engine, but I don’t have time to admire it. I shift into reverse and tear toward the gate just as a rap station blares to life, the satellite radio providing me thumping bass that falls in time with my heartbeat.
Mac runs out of the warehouse, a flash of tattoos and delight in the rearview as he races toward his vehicle.
