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He wrapped his arm low on my waist and pulled me into his firm, warm body. “Your sass is going to get you into trouble.” His voice was a low purr as his head dipped so his lips were against my earlobe. “Watch yourself.” The warning stirred my blood. “Come. I should introduce you to the others.”
“Why?” I didn’t want to speak to anyone else right now. I wanted to yank him outside, find a spot, and fuck him until neither of us gave two shits about initiations and poison vials of death.
“Because you’ve been chosen by the Hawthorne family.” My man of few words and fewer expectations kept his hand at the small of my back as he guided me into the small crowd. These were Scorpio Society members, founders, people with backgrounds in politics, the sheriff, the dean of students. Prominent. Powerful. And I wondered if those traits were requirements for membership or the results of it. It was easy to keep them all straight because they weren’t faces I hadn’t seen before in newspapers, on TV, or around this town.
The other candidates and I were paraded like ponies, but I didn’t mind as much as I probably should have, because while I was on display, Roman didn’t stop touching me. He kept his hand pressed against the bare skin at the base of my spine, his thumb stroking, his fingers occasionally bending in and out. If it were a calculated move to calm me, he failed. If it were one to keep me amped, it did. Adrenaline pulsed through me, along with anticipation. Remarkably, the jealousy of only a few moments ago—gone.
The group moved into another much darker room, with wall art of hammered copper, gold and silver frames around pictures of four men, one of which strongly resembled Roman. The place had a gothic vibe, likely because of the shackles and heavy steel chains on the floor, the candle torches on the brick façade walls, and the heavy metal beams in the ceiling.
On a slender oak table were four small serving platters, each had a crest on the handles, and two vials full of colorless liquid on the satin-lined surfaces. I wanted to ask if we’d realize whether we’d swallowed poison right away or if the effects would take a moment. I wanted to know if the poison had a taste. If the death would be painful. But I didn’t ask. I stood like a fucking mute, because the danger of this moment decided to make its presence known and slither through me like a venomous snake.
A woman with a big beehive hairdo, wearing a long black lace dress that her silicone implants were about to bust out of, walked to the center of the room. “Let’s begin.”
Roman and three other men took positions behind their designated pledge, then the woman moved to stand in front of me. “Riley Keller, by your presence, you have proved you’re willingness to die for the Scorpio Society. But are you willing to live for it?”
I nodded, mesmerized, captivated by her voice, her tone, the glimmer in her eyes. I hadn’t met her in the other room, but she wasn’t a woman I would likely forget, either. “Yes.”
Roman moved to stand in front of me, next to her, and he held out the serving platter. “Choose.”
This wasn’t a situation where “Eenie, meanie, miney, moe” would be appreciated, but the temptation was strong. I pointed to the one on the left, and Roman lifted it. “Drink.”
And so, the night finally started.
Roman
Ichecked the clock for the hundredth time, because once again, my dick had claimed possession of the power over my body and mind. I couldn’t stop thinking about her. Wondering. Plus, I had the live feed from the Scorpio Society streaming on my laptop. The video was grainy, and I would’ve known had I thought to check, which I hadn’t because I’d never been so personally invested in a pledge.
My gut churned. Music pulsed through the floor from downstairs. It was one a.m., and the place was packed, money handed back and forth across my bar, and normally, I was either in the thick of it, or fighting in the basement below. Tonight, I couldn’t be bothered to go downstairs. Tonight, I couldn’t leave my laptop.
Even when my phone buzzed, I couldn’t stop staring as I answered. I was busy trying to determine if her chest was rising and falling. If she’d moved from the time I started watching.Fucking video feed. All four pledges were visible, but none were clear. I should’ve checked before the ceremony—adjusted the camera, fine-tuned the focus.
“What?” I smacked the receiver to my ear, my annoyance as much at myself as at the interruption. I preferred brooding silence, punctuated only by the steady but muted vibrations of the music below.
“Mr. Hawthorne, there’s a detective here from SPD. She’s talking to bartenders and asking questions.” Max Winter had been an employee since I’d taken over the club as repayment for a “job” well done. He knew when to disturb me and when not to.
My office was located high over the dance floor where I could view the entire room, and I looked out the window. He pointed to a woman with flowing blonde hair, a sensible gray pantsuit, and the bulge of what could be clearly defined as a holster under her jacket while she sipped a drink at the bar.
“Bring her to me.” Not because I was worried about one of the servers or bartenders speaking to her—my people knew to keep their heads down, shut the fuck up, and do their jobs. They knew not to notice, not to see or hear or speak, and if they happened upon something they weren’t supposed to witness and thought they might need to speak to someone about it, they were to speak to me directly. They had been vetted and trained—signed paperwork to ensure what happened at Hades remained here.
I checked the screen again as I waited. Riley neither moved nor whimpered. She simply stared straight ahead, and I watched, my dick hard as a steel rod. I couldn’t stop watching, even when Marcel knocked on the door. “Detective Hall, sir.”
I nodded as he led her inside. She was more Taylor Swift than Tony Soprano—blonde and tall, dark lipstick on full, plump lips, and eyeshadow that colored her lids a smoky gray that matched her eyes. If I didn’t have Riley on my screen, proving herself worthy, I would’ve found Detective Hall infinitely fuckable. More so than anyone else I’d bent over my desk in recent weeks.
Something about those eyes, though, and the way they assessed my office, took in the silver accents, the use of lighting to emphasize the opulence, the window behind me, made my spidey senses tingle.
This was a woman who was trying to project an image. Showed up at almost one in the morning to “investigate.” Somehow, though, I doubted this had much to do with any legit investigation.
She took a seat in the chair across from mine, and I kept one eye on her and one on the screen. If she turned her head to the left by a fraction of an inch or so, she would be able to see the live feed of Riley, chained, in a basement. My body went tight. This was my porn.
Hall smiled and folded her hands on her lap, over long legs covered by cheap slacks that matched the cheap jacket around her equally cheap shirt. This was a mall outfit. And I would’ve bet this week’s take, she had Prada ambitions. She was thirsty and not in a “whet your whistle” kind of way. She wanted. Would be easily bought. One way or another. Eager to prove herself for profit.
“Mr. Hawthorne.” She inclined her head to me, and desire flared in her eyes. She was the kind of woman who didn’t disguise her want.
Glancing at Riley again, she appeared so calm. So serene. The detective was a beauty, but Riley was all I could see. All I wanted. And I wanted her with every fiber of my being.
“Detective Hall.” I nodded and gave her a mild smile. Mostly, I wanted her to leave so I could feed my Riley obsession, didn’t want her to know, and didn’t want to admit to myself why I wanted to go.
“I’m investigating the death of a young co-ed, who was found in an alley near her apartment, beaten to death.” Without the slightest bit of discretion—which I couldn’t give that first fuck about—she took a pointed look at my knuckles. Not so much as an insignificant discoloration could be found. “Her cell, as well as her credit card, were last used here.”
