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Beyond fucking stupid.
And it wasn’t her that caused my chest to seize or my perfectly pressed pants to grow unnervingly tight.
It was this.
This assignment.
This task—given to me by my half-brother who’d had years learning how to tame his tendencies—only to throw me into those same tendencies without any boundaries.
Another droplet of sweat ran down my back.
If I couldn’t even handle standing here talking, how was I going to handle everything else?
“Ward?”
The Master Jeweler quirked a manicured dark blond eyebrow at me. Roland pressed his elbow into my side, ripping me back to the suave, despicable man currently watching me with questions in his knowing eyes. Ever so slowly, the Master Jeweler turned on the balls of his glossy shoes and peered at the girl who’d sent a bolt of sick electricity to my chest with a single glance.
Her hair hung heavy and straight, kissing her shoulders with an almost impossible shade of sapphire-black. It had to be fake. No one had hair like that.
I balled my hands as my gaze followed the Master Jeweler’s, both of us studying the sweep of her shoulder blades—visible beneath the flimsy strings of her navy top—following the strong line of her spine (with the hint of a tattoo) down to the swell of her ass, hidden beneath a gold-pink skirt.
My throat closed as my gaze drifted lower, drinking in the long expanse of tanned legs, snagging on silver ankle boots with savagely sharp heels.
With a low chuckle, the Master Jeweler turned to face me, nodding appreciatively. “This club attracts sparkling gems. It’s a great place to fill a jewelry box full of pretty things.” His flat blue gaze snapped to Roland. “Don’t you agree, Olivan?”
Roland gave him an oily smile. “Oh, definitely, bijoutier. I myself have been lucky enough to collect quite a few bijoux on my hunts here.”
My ears perked on the French words for jeweler and jewels.
I was fluent from birth—thanks to my mother being half-French.
“Pourquoi ne pouvons-nous pas parler franchement?” (Why can’t we speak plainly?) I crossed my arms, my voice bored and borderline disrespectful. I did my best to hold the stare of the Master Jeweler, but the girl down the bar let out a squeak as the man she was with grabbed her roughly around her biceps.
I stilled.
Everything inside me quietened, heightened, and salivated.
Violence.
It always brought out the worst in me.
“Say it again. Go on. I dare you!” the man yelled in her face, shaking her. “You really want to do this? Here? Right now? When we’re on holiday in fucking Paris?”
“I know it’s not ideal, Sam, but…I’ve reached my limit. I just…I can’t do it anymore.” The girl’s profile came into view as she squirmed in the guy’s grip. “Just let me go, and we’ll leave. We’ll go somewhere quiet where we can talk and—”
“I don’t want to bloody talk, Ily! That’s the problem with you. That’s all you want to do these days. Talk. Or take a walk. Or watch another doco on yet another stupid rock. You’ve turned frigid—”
“Don’t you dare call me frigid. I am not—”
“Lately, you spend more time fondling your rocks than you do my cock, and frankly, I’ve had enough.”
“Good! I’ve had enough too!” Her blue-black hair swung as she fought to get out of his control. “I’d much rather touch those stupid rocks than your cock any day.”
“And I’d rather be with someone who has the drive to be rich and successful instead of throwing her life away wishing she was the goddamn queen so she can wear a goddamn tiara!”
“I am a queen, Sam. That’s why I’m dumping you. You don’t deserve me.”
Sam let out a cruel laugh. “A queen, huh? I hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but before I came along, you were failing at all levels of life. Unwanted by the whore who birthed you, adopted by a family with more issues than most people put together, sickeningly close to your adoptive brother—which explains your lack of putting out with me: you’re probably fucking him—”
