“Rose!” Esther hisses. “Get the hell down from there before you bring mayhem here.”
I want to bring mayhem here. I want a reaction. I want Danny Black, The Brit, The Angel-faced Assassin, to come down here and put me in my place, because if he’s going to force us into this world again, this is the only way I know how to survive it. With fire. With fight. With danger. I’ve found the woman I was. Finally. “Come on, you murdering asshole,” I say quietly, casting my eyes across the club, seeing all attention aimed this way, some men looking downright alarmed, others, who don’t know who I am, looking a little excited. I smile and thrust up against the pole, slowly and seductively crouching until my thighs are spread, the pole nestled between them, my dress around my waist.
“Rose!” Esther yells.
“Fury, get her down,” Beau shouts as I arch my back and rise, the crotch of my panties sliding across the metal. There are a few whoops from the crowd, a few leery cheers, a few claps.
I smile sickly on the inside, looking up when I see the door leading to the office open.
He appears, as expected, but I’m caught off guard when he doesn’t charge at me and haul me down. He just stands there, hands in his pockets, his face poker straight, his eyes blazing, as I slowly grind against the pole with him watching me. And it doesn’t escape my notice that suddenly no one else is. All men have turned away. Beau and Esther have returned to their seats. The bar staff is busying themselves.
I stare him down, hating the reaction his presence has spiked. Terror. Pure, raw terror in everyone. Except me.
I push my front to the metal until the pole is between my breasts and hook a leg around it. His head tilts. I slowly lower. He starts a casual stroll toward the stage as I bring my other leg up and slide down the pole until my ass meets the floor, my legs spread. His eyes fall to my exposed panties. His scar glimmers. He’s mad but trying not to show it.
And when a man, a stupid, foolish, greedy man, lifts his eyes from his drink at a nearby table, Danny wanders over, cool and calm, places a hand on the back of his head, and slams it down.
Right onto the tumble of whiskey before him. It shatters, and the man shrieks.
“Take another peek,” Danny says lowly, bending to get close to the guy’s bloodied face. “I dare you.”
His hand comes up in surrender, his head shaking, his apologies broken. And guilt explodes within me. Turning to look at me, Danny jerks his head mildly. “Get down, baby, before I kill someone.”
My swallow lumpy, my throat thick, I find the steps and take them down to the club floor, pulling my dress into place. I chance a glance at Esther and Beau. The disappointment on their faces amplifies the guilt. The shame.
The anger.
I start to move past Danny, set on going home, getting out of here, but he moves into my path, blocking me. My eyes on his chest, I work hard on stabilizing my breathing. “You want to behave like a whore?” he asks calmly.
I look up at him in surprise and take no pleasure from the fury behind his eyes. A leopard never changes its spots. Isn’t that what they say? Danny has fallen back into the underworld seamlessly. Fearless. Bold. Violent.
Me?
It’s taking every effort to be all the things that once kept me alive. Loving Danny Black has changed me. And now I hate him more than ever for that alone. “Enjoy your bachelor party,” I say, sidestepping him and walking toward the exit.
His palm is on my nape in seconds, his fingers clawing into my flesh. I don’t bother fighting him.
“You told me once you wanted to be mine,” he says quietly, his mouth near my ear.
“Maybe I’m regretting that.”
His fingers squeeze more, and I wince. “Maybe I’m regretting taking you as mine,” he hisses, and I inhale, unreasonably hurt. He could squeeze harder. Shake me. Push me up against a wall or fist my hair. But none of it would hurt more than those words. And he knows it.
Fighting vehemently to get my quivering lip under control, I let him push me through the club. We’re quickly flanked by men on all sides, and I’m gently but firmly guided into the back of a Merc. He slides in beside me, Ringo gets behind the wheel, and I’m soon being driven away from my very brief, very spiky bachelorette party.
Danny pulls his cell from his inside pocket and takes it to his ear. “Be ready in half an hour,” he says, and then hangs up, wedging his elbow into the door and staring out of the window.
“Who needs to be ready and for what?”
“I don’t discuss business with the latest whore I’m fucking,” he murmurs quietly.
I recoil, injured, as he slowly turns his eyes onto me. Cold eyes. Eyes without one hint of love in them. He looks me up and down in a way only he could. With hatred. Detachment. “You called it, Rose. Don’t fucking push me when I’m already hanging off the edge of sanity.” He goes back to gazing out of the window, and I shrink into my seat.
Makes two of us.
* * *
Back at the house, I’m marched up to our bedroom like an unruly child, Danny tailing me, not touching me, but as close as he could be behind. I’m not a woman who knows what’s good for her. I’m a woman who’s so tired of fighting. His patience has worn to nothing. My energy has been zapped. There’s tension in the air, naturally, but I sense I’m not the one and only cause. Something has shifted in him, his mood dark, his persona edgy. It’s the Danny I met, and I’m less than happy to see him.
He closes the door behind us and checks the time on his watch. Be ready in half an hour. It’s been twenty-five minutes since I was escorted from Hiatus in disgrace. He’s got five minutes to say what he wants to say. Or shout what he wants to shout. Perhaps even rip my dress off and exert his point with sex. I can see his restraint is ready to snap, but which way is he going to go?
His eyes land on mine with a bang. I can see what he wants to do. What he needs to do. And I need it too. Reconnection. Closeness. I need passion and pleasure and unadulterated Danny Black. Three years ago, when he took me as his prisoner, I knew he wanted me. I knew he was fighting his want. He’s fighting now. I broke him back then. I will break him again.
I reach back to the zip of my dress and draw it down, letting the material fall away from my body. His eyes follow it to the floor, and he inhales quietly. Then he approaches slowly, his hands in his pockets. Coming to a stop only a foot away, he unhurriedly lets his eyes climb up my body, coming to a halt on my tummy. I expect to be seized. Ravaged. Instead, he rips his stare away and passes me, going to the bathroom and closing the door. I hear him talking as I stand in the middle of our room in my underwear, perplexed, and he appears a few minutes later, his phone still at his ear, making a call as he goes, my robe in his grasp. “It helps relax me,” he says, holding it open behind me. I remain unmoving. “You should try it sometime.” He waits for me to drag myself out of my motionless, confused state, and I slip my arms through the sleeves as he rounds me, holding his cell to his ear with his shoulder as he takes the ties and fastens my robe, his attention set on his task and his call. “Indeed. Every Saturday without fail at noon.” He looks up at me, almost accusingly. “Good talking.” He hangs up. “Bed,” he orders, moving back, out of my space, not looking at me.