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“Fucking Africa?” she said to his back. Anteros paused then turned back. Hate flowed like a river rapid, washing over him, jerking him, tearing him down under to where her hurt lay. His eyebrows narrowed and he stepped closer, her heated breaths whipping his jaw.
She raised a hand, cutting through the air as if to slap him. He caught it quickly, gripping her by the wrist, holding it there, and it trembled with force, or maybe emotion. He raked his eyes over her, really taking her in. She was wearing a thin white t-shirt and jeans, and her feet were completely bare.
Where had she gotten jeans?
It was as if she’d barely bothered to dress. For the first time since she’d traded herself, she looked like the girl he’d taken. Instead of angering him, it made him want to pull her to the floor.
A thought occurred to him, though. “How did you hear about Gabriella?”
“Some bald asshole was in here talking on his phone about shipping her off,” she snapped. Rhys. Anteros flicked his gaze upstairs. Why was Rhys there so early? “Must you take everything from me?” Her voice had grown hoarse with hatred, and when she asked the question, he paused. The loathing in her voice was so devastating, it was like smoke curing his soul. Their eyes locked, her bright ones watery but fierce, like the blue glow in glacial ice. There was always so much going on beneath the surface with her. He cocked his head, thinking about her statement.
“No,” he responded, dropping her arm. “I take only what you give.”
She glared and looked away, eyes locking on the thin, animal skin rug beneath their feet. “You’re…you’re delusional.”
“Am I?” He stepped to her, closing the little distance between them. “You offered yourself to me, I didn’t take you.” Before she could respond, Anteros undid the button of her jeans, ripping them down to below her ass.
Bare.
At least that was the same. Skin against skin, he gripped her ass, tight, leaving white handprints on her skin, and spread her. Then he released, slapping hard, leaving red handprints. He slid his fingers inside her, deep in her slit. With his other hand, he rubbed just along swollen folds, teasing her, the way that made her lungs seize and—
Gasp.
Like that. Wet against his palm, her body moved against him. Her mouth parted. She reached for him and Anteros let her go, standing back up.
It took a moment for Frankie to come back, to realize what had happened. It was only a few seconds, but for those few seconds she stared up at him, completely open, waiting. Eyes hazy and drunk for him, not caring that her pants were down around her thighs and that her cunt was on display for him.
She was beautiful.
Then she blinked, looking at Anteros and down at her herself. She hastily tugged her jeans up. Inhaling through her nostrils, she snapped, “You twist everything.”
“I’ve been patient with you,” Anteros replied, “but I grow tired of this.”
“If this is your patience, I don’t think I want to see you impetuous,” she said.
He reached out and gripped her jaw, pulling her glare to him. “No, I don’t think you do.” Their eyes locked and her glare softened into sadness.
“May I at least see Gabriella one last time before you sell her?” she whispered, lip trembling. “She was my only friend.” She looked up at him, eyes somehow appearing bigger, shrouded under impossibly thick and long lashes. Anteros spread his hand over her face, thumb to cheek.
It was utterly pointless; her life was over.
“I’ll consider it,” he said at last.
“Oh thank you,” Frankie threw her arms around his neck but immediately backed off, looking censured. With his other hand, Anteros grabbed her arm, holding her to his neck before she could completely remove herself from him. Though her eyes watered, she did not cry. The water undulated against her lids, ready to fall. With his thumb, he touched the spot beneath her lid, ready to catch it.
“What’s wrong?” Anteros asked. “Our meeting isn’t for another four hours.” Anteros took his seat behind the desk. Rhys gave him a blank look. “Out with it.” Anteros waved his hand impatiently. Whatever the bad news was that had caused Rhys to show up early—he assumed it had something to do with that clusterfuck of a Christmas party—he could handle it. Anteros didn’t, however, have patience for those who squirreled around with bad news. He wasn’t one to kill the messenger and if something was going wrong, hemming and hawing didn’t make it any less terrible.
“Nikolai informed me you were ready for me, Mr. Drago,” Rhys said slowly, furrowing his brow. Anteros frowned. Nikolai was not one to make mistakes. When Anteros first brought Nikolai on as a ward, he’d seen to that. The scar on his face was a reminder of the last mistake he’d ever made.
Nikolai wasn’t the angel-f
aced boy he appeared to be; in fact he was all that was left of the Russian mafia after Anteros crippled them into extinction some years ago. Some had called him foolish for not ending the boy’s life along with his family. Maybe he was. Nikolai had been the age Anteros was when Lucio had taken him to America.
He’d kept that information to himself.
A year after Anteros had taken Nikolai under his wing, he’d found him looking into his private files. The proper response would have been death, but instead Anteros had given him a warning: the scar. Since then Nikolai had been the perfect slave. Though Anteros would never admit it, he’d grown fond of the boy, even going as far as to give him a day off each year and allowing him personal items. Such freedoms were unheard of in his world.
“I’ll have to have a word with the boy.” Anteros turned to Rhys. “That is the last time you will call me that.” Anteros had given Rhys leeway with formalities, given the fact he wasn’t from the life and that he wasn’t technically Boss, but now things were changing. If Rhys wanted to continue advising Anteros, he would call him Boss.
