Page 65 of The Wages of Sin

“I mean, what kind of woman falls in—“ I stopped myself just in time. The last thing I needed to be doing was throwing that word around. I tried again. “What kind of woman knowingly sleeps with a killer?”

“In your case, a good and caring one,” Dorian answered before moving closer. “What were you going to say before you stopped yourself?”

“Nothing,” I quickly tried to change the subject. “What should I wear? I don’t know where we’re going.”

“The red dress,” he said, pointing to the form-fitting, cherry red piece without looking away from me for even a second. “And it wasn’t nothing. Tell me what you were going to say. What kind of woman falls in what?”

I should have known he would never let it go that easy.

I turned my attention toward the clothes, slipping the dress over my head and enjoying the feel of the silky fabric against my freshly washed skin.

Whoever had shopped for this wardrobe was nothing short of a miracle worker. The dress fit like a dream, hugging my curves just right and dipping down just far enough down my cleavage to make me feel sexy but not overexposed.

Well, at least being a mob girlfriend isn’t all bad news, I thought contemptuously to myself.

“I should dry my hair,” I said, trying to step past Dorian, but he refused to move. Even in the wide closet, his massive form blocked my way.

He hooked his finger under my chin, lifting it up and forcing me to meet his demanding gaze. “What were you going to say, Kiera?”

“Nothing,” I repeated, doubling down.

“Don’t lie to me,” he said, crossing his arms in front of his ridiculously broad chest. “I can tolerate anything but lies.”

Well, too fucking bad. Because right now, the truth was the one pill I couldn’t force myself to swallow.

So I crossed my own arms, looked Dorian straight in the eye, and lied my damn ass off.

“Falling apart,” I said flatly. “When I’m with you, I fear that I’m falling apart.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

DORIAN

She was lying.

I knew it the moment the words left her lips, but I didn’t say a word. Not there in the closet or later in the car as we drove across Manhattan toward The Relic—Gabriel’s current favorite nightclub.

I wasn’t 100% positive I’d find him there, but now that I knew Sal was tapping the twins’ phones, I couldn’t risk a call or text. Still, seeing as it was a Friday night, chances were good Gabriel would be at one of the handful of SoHo bars he liked to frequent.

Fortunately, we didn’t have to waste any time searching other spots. Pulling up to the curb next to the massive queue of people waiting to get inside, I recognized the bouncer working the line. I lowered the window and asked him if Gabriel was inside. He nodded.

That was all I needed to know.

I cut the engine and tossed the valet the keys before helping Kiera out of the car.

“Stay close once we get inside,” I said, wrapping my arm around her waist. “I don’t want to lose you in the crowd.”

She didn’t say a word, but I figured she must have agreed since she didn’t pull away.

I led her past the line of waiting clubgoers and straight to the front door. The bouncer at the door—well over six feet tall and packed with enough muscle to strain the limits of his black cotton T-shirt—quickly opened it for us and inclined his head as we walked past.

Beside me, I heard Kiera give a disbelieving groan. “Holy crap, is there anybody in this town who isn’t afraid of you?”

“No,” I answered honestly. “Not if they know who I am.”

If she had anything else to say, it was swallowed up by the wall of sound that hit us the moment we stepped inside.

Thumping bass and booming rhythm shook the maze of half walls and columns that divided the fringes of the club into a labyrinth of semi-private booths and discreet nooks. The dim, almost nonexistent light made navigating the confusing floor plan even more difficult. Only the dance floor was wide open, but it was so packed with bodies, writhing and pulsating to the hypnotic beat, that it was practically impossible to cross.

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