“Oh, and you do?”
“No, I don’t. But I’m taking you anyway, because at least I appreciate every part of you.”
“Appreciate?” She scoffs. “Do you think the belt around my neck felt like appreciation? Eli saved me.” I hate his name now more thanever, the way it falls from her lips. “I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for him. And he’s a far better man than you.” She shouts, and even last night—when I hauled her over my shoulder, slapped her ass, and made her walk downstairs with my belt at her throat—she wasn’t this furious.
“Saved you?”
“My life.” A pause. “He saved my life.”
Eli is not simply her ex. He’s a man no amount of deleted texts can erase from her memory. And what the hell am I compared to that?
I want to know more, but instead, what slips past my lips are words I don’t mean to say.
“But even that wasn’t enough to make you love him.”
The inner corners of her eyebrows lift, before her gaze drops, like she doesn’t want me to see the damage I inflicted.
“Summer. . .”
Her eyes flick back to the screen as she swallows hard, and without giving me a chance to say another word, she disconnects the call.
I should call. Apologize. Fix this.
But she won’t pick up. She won’t text back either.
So, like a complete piece of shit, I do nothing.
A strained shout rips out of me as I hurl the phone across the room, not caring if it breaks. I already broke something far more precious.
What are you doing to me, Succubus?
Chapter 23
Atlas
Romanoff’s fat face is glued to his desk, pressed down by Dean’s palm, and I’m impressed at how quickly I went fromlet’s do this the proper waytoviolence is the only way.
Summer ignoring my texts and calls for the past day and a half probably has a lot to do with my approach. I can’t even track her anymore.
Or maybe it’s because this piece of shit pushed our buttons with his impossibly high fees and disrespected Dean. I hate dealing with scum like him, but we need this gallery, and a man with dirty secrets is exactly what’s required.
I lean forward in my chair, inching closer to that cockroach I’d like to smash.
“My brothers and I came here with the good intention of striking a deal in a civil manner, and you think you can play games with us?”
“I-I—” Romanoff tries to sob out unintelligible words, when Dean pulls his head up by the sleazy, gel-dripping hair and smashes it against the mahogany desk.
“I haven’t allowed you to speak. Want to know what Dean’sfavorite hobby is?”
Romanoff groans in pain instead of trying to answer.
“There’s a gentle soul underneath his rough exterior,” I continue, and Dean glares at me. “He likes making necklaces. Know what his favorite materials are?”
The cockroach’s eyes widen.
“Teeth and nails. Sometimes, when Dean feels especially creative, he adds an ear or two. Real statement pieces. And he always makes the donor wear the necklace.”
Romanoff looks like he’s experiencing early signs of a heart attack, drenched in sweat and choking on his own saliva, and that makes Connor chortle on the side.
