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His hand smooths down my side to rest possessively on my thigh, right where it flares into my hip. His fingertips flex for a moment, almost like a subtle caress, then still.
Idefinitelymissed something.
“Grape.”
I blink at him. He still doesn’t look at me, and I’m not sure if I heard him correctly at first. But then his fingers dig into my thigh and I realize yes, I heard him.
Of all the…
I keep that smile plastered on my face and pray that he chokes on the fucking grape that I pluck from the board and gently popinto his mouth. As he slowly chews, he looks around the table at his guests until his eyes land on one in particular.
“Tarken, old friend.” His voice is calm, but I’m starting to pick up on his little tells more and more: he’s not as happy as he seems. “I have some concerns about our new contract.”
Tarken frowns just a little, but laughs it off. “Oh? What about? Everything looks good on my end.”
“You seem to misunderstand a few very important terms and conditions.”
Now, the man is more confused. “I don’t understand.”
“No, you don’t. When I say ‘exclusive,’ I fucking mean ‘exclusive.’ Non-negotiable.”
The men playing the card game slowly lower their hands and look uncomfortably at the tablecloth. Tarken turns an interesting shade of red and sputters. “But, Dem, I?—”
“Thought you could buy me off? Disregard my terms with money?” Demyen laughs, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. Those are cold, calculating, and deciding this poor man’s fate. “What could I possibly want withyourmoney?”
“But the contract?—”
“Will need another review by my lawyer. We’ll be making a few adjustments as well. Your cut is now dropped to thirty percent.”
“You can’t?—”
“Fifteen percent.”
Tarken slumps in his chair, beet red and practically foaming at the mouth. But he knows he’s defeated. He looks at me, butinstantly looks away again when Demyen clears his throat in warning.
Demyen’s hand travels from my thigh to my side in a long, slow caress of his fingers. “You’re lucky I’m feeling so generous and we’re at a party. I’m not in the mood to make my staff clean your brains off the linens. Am I understood?”
The man nods. Some of the other men nod, too, just to be safe.
I pick a cube of gouda and feed it to him. I figure he’s probably expecting me to keep going regardless of what’s going on. His glare is fixed on his “business associate,” but he accepts the cheese with a small grunt of what might be gratitude. Maybe.
But when I feed him another grape and the juice accidentally bursts between his lips, he looks at me as I grab a napkin and gently dab his chin clean.
Our eyes meet. For a breathless millisecond, I could swear I see something glimmer in his eyes that isn’t anger, or calculation, or desire.
It’s new.
It’s raw.
It’sdangerous.
And it’s quickly shuttered behind his boss mask the moment I spot it.
“If you weren’t our generous host, I’d call you selfish,” chuckles one of the other men at the table. He seems decent enough, but I’m quickly learning to never trust appearances when it comes to Demyen’s friends. “Keeping such a beautiful woman all to yourself. And obedient, too.”
That last comment lands right when I’m feeding Demyen a chocolate-covered almond. My fingers still. Suddenly, I’m not enjoying this as much as I was two minutes ago—if that could be called “enjoying”—and I want the ground to swallow me whole.
It’s one thing for Demyen to do whatever this is.
