Page 67
“Now, look. I've got a few things to show you.” He turns the tablet he's been working on and shows me. “This is where we're going tonight, and these are the heavy hitters.”
I draw in a breath but don't say anything when I see Ginger and Shamrock right there on the screen, along with a few other familiar assholes.
“Torin, I know all of them.”
“Course you fucking do,” he says under his breath. “Those arseholes.”
The briefing doesn't stay a briefing for long. He moves through it, going over all the details. I'm listening, filing each piece where it belongs. I'm good at this. I've always been good at this, even when my father didn't know it. Even when my brothers didn't. They would never give me an opportunity to do anything like this.
I was supposed to look pretty, obey, and be ready to get married.
He stops mid-sentence and looks at me the way he sometimes does, as if reassessing something he thought he'd already settled.
“You know how to handle yourself,” he mutters. It isn't a question.
“Yes. Well, I mean, I thought I did.” My voice wobbles. I hate that it does. “But I was kidnapped and put up for auction, still.”
“And I was framed and spent time in prison,” he says. “Sometimes, protecting yourself has its limitations.”
I look back at him. He looks fucking hot in that suit.
He pulls up close to me. I like how he smells. “If someone threatens you, what are you going to do?” His voice drops low.
“Call you and let you beat them up,” I say sweetly.
He growls.
“Kidding. Kidding. Also, don't do that unless you absolutely have to.”
“Answer the question, Valentina.”
I consider telling him it doesn't matter, that I'll take care of myself. I consider several things. Then I say, “I guess it depends on how close I let them get and what they do.”
He nods, then stands and pushes the table aside. There’s a great deal more room in the space between us, which is either an invitation, a test, or maybe both. “Go ahead, then. Let me see what you can do.”
I lean back, shift my weight, and swing. He catches my wrist halfway, flesh meeting flesh. Not hard. Just there. His fingers close around my wrist as if he'd been waiting for it, because he's the one who told me to swing. It isn't rough, and that’s what makes it so hard to stay clinical. “Too wide,” he says. “You telegraphed it.”
“You were watching for it!”
“Watch your tone.”
“Or what?”
He leans in close. “There you go again, tempting me with a good time,” he whispers. “I've given you some leeway here, Valentina, but if you need a reminder of who's in charge, I am happy to deliver that. Everyone in that room will be watching you.”
He doesn't release my wrist but turns it slightly, repositioning it like he's correcting something technical—not like he's holding my hand—with his breath in my hair and his eyes on mine. “You wind up with the element of surprise, and they'll know exactly what you're doing. You don't need to wind it up anyway. Just a little pressure goes a long way. Keep it short, keep it close. You don't need force. You need accuracy.”
“We'd better go over the cover, then, shouldn't we? It's time for me to get dressed.”
Something moves through his expression. Then he nods.
“Are you sure you had enough to eat?” He stares disapprovingly at the amount of pasta still left.
“Yes. It was delicious. Thank you.”
“Good. Now go get ready. Ride's here soon.”
I walk to the dresses and run my fingers down the length of each. The green sheath is soft to the touch, but the red is scratchy. I hate scratchy clothes.
