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“What’s that, minx?”

“You make me feel safe,” he rumbles, his hand reaching for mine as he laces our fingers together. “It’s been a really long time since anyone has ever made me feel safe.”

I bring his knuckles to my lips and kiss them lightly. “I trust you, too, Sky. Now, let’s go kill this bastard.”

Chapter sixteen

Jericho

The crystal chandeliers in the Grand Palace Ballroom are blinding. Tiny lights glitter across a sea of old money, wealthy criminals, and corrupt politicians. I stand near one of the gilded columns at the edge of the auction floor. I’m wearing the staff’s signature black tuxedo that’s slightly itchy and makes me miss my tailored suits. My earpiece is a low, static hum in my left ear, but my focus is entirely locked on the floor.

Or, more accurately, on Skylar.

He’s currently working the room in his usual public persona, as Skylar King, porn star. I’ve grown so used to Skylar, the smart and cunning serial killer, that the transformation is both terrifying and dazzling to watch. He’s wearing a breathtaking, royal blue designer suit that makes him look like a sinful angel who wandered into a den of thieves. He effortlessly glides through the crowd of billionaires with a sensual grace. He’s completely intoxicating, and I’m not the only fucking person who’s noticed. Right now, he’s leaning into the space of some tech mogul, laughing at a stupid fucking joke, his pretty pendant catching the light as he casually chats with the man in front of him.

“Just spotted. Franko’s new assistant is getting a drink at the bar,” Skylar’s voice purrs through the comms, his tone bright and bubbly to match the smile he’s flashing to the room. “He’s the man in the god-awful purple tux. Keep an eye on him, handsome.”

“Copy that,” I murmur into my collar, my jaw tightening as some other wealthy rando steps into Skylar’s space, boldly placing a hand on the small of his back.

My hand twitches toward my jacket lining, instantly calculating how fast I could break the man’s wrist before the security detail could tackle me to the ground. Skylar catches my movement from across the room. Without missing a beat in his conversation, he tilts his head back, his pretty brown eyes locking onto mine through the crowd. He flashes a slow, wicked smirk. The fucking minx is doing this flirting shit on purpose.

He turns back to the man in front of him, leaning in dangerously close to whisper something that makes the man flush with a mix of lust and arrogance. It’s brilliant acting. The rest of the world thinks Skylar is a pretty, shallow prize to win. They have no idea they’re flirting with the White Amethyst Killer.

I make my way toward the bar, several people briefly stopping me for this or that, but I tell them someone else will be here shortly to help them. I’m doing a shit job at playing staff, especially since I can’t keep my eyes off Skylar. Damn. Maybe having such a sexy partner in crime is more of a distraction than anything. I’m seething.

Suddenly, Skylar’s signature scent surrounds me, and I know he’s there before I even turn. He leans in, lips grazing seductively against my ear. “Your jealousy is showing, big guy.” He pats me on the chest and begins pulling away.

Lightning fast, I snatch his wrist and yank him back to me. “How can I be jealous, little minx? I’ll be the only one fucking you tonight,” I growl. Just as quickly, I let go of his wrist and back away, disappearing into the crowd.

Two can play at this game. I smirk. Turning, I spot a blushing, flustered little minx frozen in the spot where I left him. Skylar moves slowly, straightening his collar and looking dazed. But then a faint smile tips his lips. My chest fills with warmth, knowing I put it there. As if just now realizing he’s still in public, Skylar quickly glances around before he continues to mingle.

Chapter seventeen

Skylar

The heat of the auction room is so fucking suffocating. It’s a sickening blend of expensive champagne, floral perfume, and sweat. The bidding for several raw, unserialized blood diamonds on the main stage has devolved into a shouting match between two billionaire assholes, creating the perfect, chaotic distraction I need.

I make my way toward the heavy oak door of the VIP lounge. The security detail guarding the perimeter stops me, but instantly recognizes me as the pretty, harmless porn star looking for a private restroom. I give the guard a dazzling, flirty smile. “God, can you believe the drinks in this place?” I ask, lifting my glass to my lips, pretending to sip. “My champagne here is worth eight grand.”

His eyes follow the line of my Adam’s apple as I swallow, not really caring about the expensive alcohol. “Skylar, I’m a huge fan of yours,” he says nervously before jumping into a rambling story about one of his favorite videos and asking if I had Monty Stylez’s phone number.

“I sure do,” I whisper, leaning in. “He would absolutely love you.” I place my hand on his forearm and squeeze. I pull my phone from my pocket and fidget with it.

The guard’s eyes widen with shock.

“Would you like me to give it to you?”

“Hell yeah. Damn, I would owe you big time.”

“Sure thing, love. Hold my glass, will you?” I hand him my champagne before he can reply. Leaning in, I whisper in his ear, casually brushing against the man seductively. “I know you’re on duty, but if you’d like a tiny little taste of eight-thousand-dollar alcohol, you can take a few sips.”

The man doesn’t even hesitate, taking a healthy swallow. I smirk. It should only take a few seconds for the white amethyst powder to knock him out. I casually walk into the dark alcove next to the door. The guard follows before catching himself on the wall and slipping to the floor.

“Out like a light,” I whisper into the mic hidden in my cuff, my voice calm and even despite the exciting thrum of my pulse. I’m so fucking close. “Cover the exit.”

“Got you, little minx. The hallway is clear,” Jericho’s rough, grounding rumble vibrates through my earpiece. “You have two minutes before the roving patrol hits that corridor. Go.”

I step over the guard, his body leaning heavily against the wall in the shadows. I sneak into the dim hallway that leads to the private lounge. I open the door. Franko is standing by the window, a phone pressed to his ear, and his arm that Jericho shot in a sling. His tailored suit jacket is thrown over the back of a leather armchair, and he looks even older than the last time I saw him. In fact, he looks tired, desperate.