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He runs the pad of his thumb across his bottom lip. “How many times?” His hand disappears beneath his desk, and I grip the arms of the chair tighter. A cool chill slides across my skin, and I look away. “Tell me what he did to you.”

Nausea rolls through me so quickly that I feel dizzy. This isn’t happening. It’s not. I drift away from myself, into another place, another time, to the back of a motorbike, my arms around Cole’s waist, the wind rushing past me as we ride faster and faster⁠—

“Felly, what are you doing?” I turn in my seat. Darcy is standing in the doorway, hands on her hips, honey eyes darting between us. “What the fuck is going on?”

“We’re talking, darling,” Felton says, smiling sweetly. “You look beautiful.”

“Get the fuck out.” Darcy strides into the room, seizing my arm and throwing me out of the chair. “You’re supposed to be my fucking friend and you’re letting him jerk off over you?”

She slaps me. Hard.

I hit the ground, my cheek stinging, a high-pitched screech in my ears almost drowning out their conversation.

Felton sighs. “Darcy, that’s a little much, don’t you think?”

“If I hadn’t walked in here, she’d be wearing your cum! She’s lucky I’m not cutting off her fucking hair!” she screams as Felton holds her back, not that he tries very hard. She lunges in my direction, and I use the opportunity to stumble behind Felton’s desk as if searching for cover. “Don’t run away, you⁠—”

Felton seizes Darcy by the shoulders. “That’s enough. Nothing happened.”

Cole appears at the door, but I shake my head subtly. The drawer is right in front of me, and I take my chance. While Darcy screams at Felton, I open the drawer, my hands sweating, heart thumping. It’s full of phones, and I don’t have time to read the initials written on the back that tell me which is Cole’s. I grab one, acting as if I’m hiding as I slip the phone up my dress and into the other side of the knife holster.

Darcy is crying now. “Promise me you wouldn’t have touched her.”

“I promise, baby,” Felton tuts and kisses her nose. “As if she could ever compare to you, my love. My sweet Darcy. Do you want to hit her again? Will that make you feel better?”

She pouts. “No. She’ll probably just cry and it’ll piss me off.” She slides her bitter gaze to me. “Get the fuck out.”

I rush past them, almost colliding with Cole once I’m out in the hallway. He slides his arm around my waist, pulling us hip to hip as we stride away from the office and the quieted sounds of Darcy’s crying.

“Are you okay?”

I nod, even though I’m the total fucking opposite. My skin is sticky with sweat and my cheek is stinging, but I got what I needed. “I got the phone.”

He growls. “I told you not to.”

“Too late now.” I stop, reaching up my dress to pull the phone free and tuck it into his jacket pocket. “Go, I’ll make excuses for you. Be quick.” He looks torn between staying with me and calling for help, but we both know what the best option is. “Go.”

He kisses me quickly, then heads back toward our room.

Straightening my shoulders and lifting my chin, I make my way into the dining room. It’s dimly lit by candles, the setting clearly aiming for cozy, but leaning hard into creepy as fuck. Candelabras and bottles of whiskey line the center of the table, along with empty brass dishes awaiting food. Some of the other men are already seated and talking, including Christian, who tracks me as I take my seat beside Cole’s, my name written elegantly on an embossed card and placed beside my wine glass.

The attempt at class only adds to the horror of the evening. These men portray themselves as having decorum, when in truth, they’re demons in overpriced suits. I finally understand the meaning of blood money, and my stomach turns at the thought of eating their food or drinking their wine.

“Did you fuck him to death?”

I glance up the table toward Christian. “Excuse me?”

“Cage.” He leans back in his chair, his arm draped over the back of the seat beside him. A man far too handsome for the pain he causes, light hair and clear blue eyes. A poster boy for Ivy League schools. “He’s usually a stickler for time keeping.” I tense when he rises from his chair and sits across from me. “Not much of a talker?”

“Not really.”

“Maybe that’s why you get on so well with Cage.”

“Maybe.”

He rests his forearm on the table; his penetrating gaze fixed on me. “Lucky guy, Cage. Getting to where he is in just two years. Delivering packages on his bicycle all the way to the top.”

“Motorcycle.”