Page 50 of Monstrous Urges

“Zero. Sorry. He specifically wanted you, and you alone.”

I grumble, but then take a breath, pull up my big-girl pants, and reluctantly slip into business-Taylor mode.

“Okay, fine. Do we know what the meeting is about?”

“All he told Alistair was that it was concerning some new business stuff.”

I roll my eyes. “Legal or not-so-much?”

“Little of column A, little of column B, I’m guessing.”

“Even though I’m not his attorney.”

Gabriel flashes me a grin. “Well, you never know. Maybe he likes you more now that you’ve got a rap sheet.”

I flip him off and slide out of the car.

I’ve been to holding tanks and jails before, to see clients, but I’ve never actually been in a prison cell. I have to say, spending eight hours in one is a…cleansing experience, in a weird way. It gives you a reset, and highlights priorities.

Honestly, it’s a great motivator to clear all the baggage out of your life.

For instance, after getting back to my hotel room, I plugged in my phone, turned off the location sharing setting on the Venom app, and then deleted said app.

I considered going full on scorched earth and getting a new apartment—not because of Steven, but because the stranger from Venom might very well know who the hell I am. I mean, he came to my hotel. He knew what room I was in. Surely that means he got my information from the front desk somehow.

But after grilling the manager at the Soho Grand, I’ve been assured that nothing of the kind happened.

And yes, the stranger did see my face without my mask. But that doesn’t mean he knows who I am. I’ve checked with George at the front desk of the Crown and Black building again, and he’s also assured me that no tall, dark, and sinister looking men with vaguely European accents have come looking for me.

So, a few hours later, after a much-needed shower and an outfit change into a black de la Renta number back home, the maître d’ at D’Atella informs me as he leads me to a table in the center of the lavish dining room that my guest will be arriving soon.

I’m checking my work email on my phone when I feel it.

A presence, like a dark shadow. Cold air coming from the open cellar door. Something almost malicious.

…Something freakishly familiar.

“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”

I shiver at his voice. I’ve briefly met Drazen before, a few times, and obviously I’m aware that he’s a ludicrously attractive man. But that voice…

Down, girl.

It’s the mix of slight accent and dark, unquestionable power. A little rough and gravelly, yet smooth and cultured. The voice, like the way he wears his clearly top-of-the-line custom suits, suggests a humble upbringing that was then introduced to culture and refinement. Like the impoverished peasant boy who’s gifted enrollment at a prestigious boarding school.

His voice has a polish to it, but you can still hear the roughness under the shine. And the suits, insanely expensive and perfectly tailored though they might be, are worn with just enough disdain to highlight that he wears them because he knows he is expected to.

I clear my throat as I go to stand. “No, not at all, Mr. Kry?—”

“Please, don’t get up,” he murmurs in that honeyed baritone that I’m sure drives the legions of women he must have at his beck and call wild. He smiles a cool, charming smile as he sits across from me. Still, if you look, you can see it.

A little bit of…something…behind that smile.

Coldness. Darkness. Raw power.

I shake the thoughts away. If the stories are to be believed, the man grew up in a fucking war zone witnessing genocide, for fuck’s sake. And here I am telling myself I see malice and darkness behind his smile?

Fuck you, you insensitive bitch.

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