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ARDEN
In the half second before I was knocked unconscious, I saw the red blazer and knew Grey had given the order, but that doesn’t make me any less pissed to see the smug satisfaction on his face as the door swings open, rattling on its unoiled hinges. The fire behind his eyes barely contained his anger, and our gazes snap together like the electric end of two magnets.
My pulse rushes to life in my throat and my wrists strain against the chains that have me cuffed to the table. A fresh wave of hatred for Grey Clavos rushes through me, if it’s even possible to like him any less—the Rossis and Calvos families have never mixed, and Grey and I are certainly no exception. In fact, we’re the opposite. Maybe there was a time when our families could have been peaceable, but it died when Grey and I were born.
On the same fucking day, in the same fucking hospital.
“I hope you covered your tracks well,” I say, my voice husky and rough. “Because my mother is going to be after you. And not just my mother, my whole fuckin’ syndicate. My entire family.”
He knows that, of course, but I’m not going to let him go without hearing it from me.
Grey pushes aside the chair on the other side of the table. “Of course I did,” he says, his hands flexing against the steel top as he leans against it. His bare forearms are framed by sleeves that have been pushed up, showcasing an erotic twist of veins through his skin. He’s certainly strong enough to handle himself. “I’m not an idiot.”
“And yet you kidnapped me,” I say dryly. “Why do you want me here, Calvos?” I try to keep still, but everything in me wants to squirm, and not because of him. The cuffs around my wrist are keeping me from moving, and I hate being trapped. “I didn’t think I did anything to piss you off.”
I know exactly why I’m here, but I’m sure as hell not going to be the first to mention his dead father. I saw the photos for myself, I know that Matthew Calvos was murdered using our signature, but it wasn’t us, and he knows that.
His jaw twitches. “You know why you’re here.”
“Because you think I killed your daddy?” I smirk. I can’t help myself, I like messing with him. Poking at him. Like throwing sticks at a bear. “I know you’re not sad about it, Grey. You couldn’t look any more delighted.”
He looks everything but delighted, but I know he certainly isn’t mourning his father. No one is. Not even his most beloved captains.
Grey looks me dead in the eye. His are grey, just like his name. “I want you to tell me you had nothing to do with it.”
I cock an eyebrow. “I didn’t kill Matthew,” I say easily, because it’s true. I’m not a good liar, and he knows that. “And neither did anyone in my syndicate.”
A growl tears from the back of his throat as he pushes off the table, his hands flexing and then balling into fists at his sides. He’s barely keeping his anger in check, and I’m sure that if I was any other person, he’d be in a rage right now.
“What the fuck do you want me to do about it?” I yell, annoyed. “I can’t reverse what’s happened, and at this point, I’m not sure I can do anything to help you other than get out of here. My presence seems to be doing very little to help this situation, and my family isn’t involved. Do you want my family to be involved?”
He turns on his heels, moving back to the table in a swift second. His fist comes down on the top of the iron table, but I don’t even flinch. I grew up in the mafia. Intimidating theatrics were nothing new.
“It would sure be a whole hell of a lot easier if you were,” he mutters, rage simmering under his skin. It practically vibrates off of him, seeping out of his pores, the tips of his fingers, thrumming around his body. His toned, broad, shoulders are tense with burning anger, his jaw set and his eyes dark.
“You’re more attractive when you’re angry,” I whisper, just to piss him off.
But it’s true. Grey Calvos has always been attractive, and it’s one of the reasons why I hate everything about him. He makes me feel things. Dangerous things. Things that make my mind wander to other places where I’ve got handcuffs around my wrists, places that have nothing to do with being a prisoner.
Or maybe I am a prisoner. A prisoner to his body, to his touch. His tongue and his kiss and his cock. I may hate him, but that doesn’t mean my body hates him.
“What do you want, Grey?” I ask, lowering my voice. I know there isn’t anyone else on the other side of the one-way glass, and I catch my own reflection in the mirror. I look pathetic, but I don’t care. “Was this just an excuse to get me here?”
My wrists strain against the cuffs again, and his eyes zero in on the movement. Flickering back to mine, they burn with a darkness that I want to let consume me.
You want me, I think. You want me as bad as I want you.
I cross my legs tightly under the table, trying to soothe some of the ache that’s budding between my thighs. I could picture it now, him telling me to bend over the table, him making me watch myself in that mirror until I cum all over his cock…
“You will be staying with me,” he says firmly. “You will be staying with me until I have what I want from you.”
“And what is that?” I say, arching an eyebrow.
Grey inside of me, fucking me like I know he knows how to fuck a woman. Grey spreading my legs apart, tasting me with his tongue. Grey letting me ride him, but not letting me cum until I’m screaming and begging for him.
His eyes narrow and darken, as if he can read my thoughts. “You will call your family,” he says, “and inform them that you are staying with me.”
He pulls a phone out of his pocket with a number dialed up that I recognize as my mother’s. I snap out of my fantasies instantly, realizing he’s being fucking serious. I take it from him, still warm from his pocket, staring at the call button.
