Slinking to the bar, I gesture to the bartender for a drink. Without being told, he takes from the top shelf, pouring ahealthy dose of the Scotch I’ve come to love. Why? Because it’s not what my father would enjoy.
Once the glass touches my lips, a body brushes past me. The slickness of it makes my skin crawl, and I glare up over my shoulder.
Some drunk peers down at me, smiling.
Fuck. Not tonight.
“What’s a cute thing like you doing here all alone?” he slurs, and I exhale, locking eyes with the bartender.
He looks like he wants to intercede, but the flash of fear in his eyes is refreshing. He knows who I am—most of this bar does. They’d be idiots not to. He won’t interfere or risk my wrath.
I remember what it’s like to be feared—not to be the one being afraid.
Reaching into my boot, I wait for the hand to fall to my shoulder. Twisting the hilt in my palm, I point the sharp tip toward his throat, a hair’s breadth away from slicing his pink flesh.
The creep stalls, blinks once, and whimpers.
“Go.”
Tripping over himself, he flees, barging into other dancers. Swiftly, I recall the knife, sliding it back down into my boot. Glaring at the bartender, he raises his hands.
“What?” I ask, sipping the liquor. The cool burn makes me sigh, shoulders dropping.
“You’re terrifying.”
Obviously. I take pride in that. There was a time when men thought I wouldn’t amount to anything—being terrifying is a compliment.
Smirking, I turn my back to the bartender and scan the crowd. It’s withering bodies, dry humping on the black dance floor, but I try to keep my eyes open. Every face that appears, Isearch, looking for Ronan’s soft blue eyes and the dirty blonde hair that seems to float around his head.
He looked like an angel, but I always knew a devil hid beneath. A devil that wants to see me fall and is willing to betray me to do it.
“Whenever I suggested a night out,” a voice says to my left, “you always told me you hated clubs. Too suffocating. Too hot.”
I keep my face neutral, keeping my shock and rage inside. Reese moves against me, his tight shirt showing off the muscles I always suspected were underneath. Standing before me, in a pair of jeans and boots, he doesn’t look like an accountant—he looks like a man at home in tactical operations.
A fucking dirty cop.
“They are,” I answer, holding on to that rage with white knuckles. “Or maybe I didn’t want to go out with you.”
He taps his chest. “That hurts, right here.”
Stepping closer, he slides his shoe between my boots. Before he can touch me further, I pull my knife and level it at his crotch.
Laughing, he leans back. “I was told you were the fighting type. Never saw it out on those dates. I figured they had it wrong. That there was no way you could be this underworld kingpin.”
“Queenpin.”
Inclining his head, he smiles widely. “Maybe if I saw more of this side, those dates could’ve gone differently.”
My stomach rolls. “Sorry, you’re not my type.”
“But the Reaper is?” His eyes flash, and I’d almost say it’s jealousy. It’s probably a hurt ego. He seems like the type. “I know all about him. He wasn’t exactly subtle in how he feels about you.”
“He wasn’t trying to be subtle.” I push the blade closer, tip catching on the button of his jeans. “Why are you here, Reese?”
“A boyfriend can’t come visit his girlfriend?”
“By all means,” I drawl, fighting down bile. “Go visit her. I’m not stopping you.”
