Page 6 of His Pretty Little Duet

Maybe he’s the creation of the Devil.

I shuffle in his shadow.

“You believe you’re Dustin Nerrock’s daughter?” he says, projecting a tone of smooth, effortless authority. Dropping his gaze to my feet, he scrutinises me slowly, leisurely trailing the length of my body. Settling on my face, his eyes narrow. “You bear no resemblance.”

Not sure why, but that hurts. I'd rather look like the predator than the prey, but I admit, “I look like my mum.”

He nods towards the chair that I refused to sit on earlier, holding his hand out to insist I precede him. And although I immediately walk over to it, my gaze is snagged on the size of his hand. I wonder how many dirty deals he’s signed with them, how many men he’s beaten to death. “Take a seat.”

Doing as I’m told, I slide into the chair, still holding my sandwich tightly. The Devil’s prototype sits down opposite me, leans back, and settles his ankle on top of his knee. He’s all smooth and casual, while wearing a suit that drips wealth, that screams he is anything but a casual man. “I’m afraid I have some bad news for you. The man you came to see died twelve months ago.”

“Oh.” My heart sinks, feeling as though I’ve missed my opportunity, as though the three buses here were a waste of time, and the money spent just a waste in general.

“Your father...” A hint of a grin tugs at his left lip, the charismatic curve lighting a flame in the lowest part of my abdomen. I don't like that reaction. “If he is, in fact, your father, is very much alive.”

My eyes widen. “Really? Do you know where I can find him? Where is he?”

“Firstly,"—he motions to me, a piercing blue gaze sliding across my face with intent—“your name?”

“Fawn.” My eyes dart to the sandwich, which I instinctively place on the table instead of holding it in my lap like a dog afraid her master will take away her bone. “I’m Fawn.”

“You understand I need to make sure you are Dustin’s daughter, don’t you?” When the words leave his mouth, I sink further down onto the cold, hard chair because I have no proof. Just a dead woman’s bedtime stories. I glance to my lap, worrying my lip.

“Fawn,” he says, and as though he has a direct line to my chin, my head rises to meet his stern gaze. “When I talk to you, you look me in the eye.”

Fuck me.

Forcing the dryness from my throat, I swallow and nod. His glowing blue eyes dart to watch the roll of my throat. “And you answer me. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I say straightaway, his tone stoking the little flame in my abdomen to a full-blown fire. “I understand. It’s just... I have no proof.”

He twists his knees to face away from me. “Come over here. Let me get a good look at you.”

I blink at him.

Once.

Twice...

Oh my God, he's serious.

When I stand, my legs tremble, nerves racketing through me. I take the two steps to stand by his side, waiting for instruction. He opens his legs. “Kneel.”

My heart scrambles right into my throat while my body does exactly as he commanded—I’m a puppet and he wields the strings. I swear I didn’t give my legs permission to kneel, but I’m between his thighs now, and he’s looking down at my face with a measuring gaze.

I hold his stare, watching the way it traces the curves of my features, the way it flicks from one of my eyes to the other, an action I’m familiar with, given I have one green eye and one blue-grey.

Captivated by him, my breath catches when his forefinger touches my chin, lifting. AndGod, his smell moves around me, into me. He doesn't smell like Benji. His scent is like his aura: deep, rich, powerful, and just so very...masculine.

When the French doors open, a man walks through them, and I peer at him without turning my head, my chin still controlled by the gentle touch ofhisfinger. He taps the side of my chin, drawing my attention back to his intense stare that seems to have never left my face. Under his gaze, everything seems strange. Dizzying, yes. But also... like I want to make damn sure I don’t disrespect him.

The man beside us hands him something, and I catch the flash of a thin white column. My breathing instantly becomes shallow. He notices, his eyes dropping to my chest, watching my nervousness play out through the weighted rise and fall of my breasts. His gaze drags back up to my face as he says, “Now. Open these lips.”

When I don’t instantly respond, too busy contemplating his words, bewilderment squeezing my lungs, his hand moves to my jaw. I gasp as he digs his fingers into my cheeks, parting my teeth, forcing my lips wide apart. I wince at the harsh hold, but don’t show any resistance, don’t recoil either, too focused on breathing, on staying very still. He’s dangerous; that much is damn clear. A mob boss? My mind drifts to the feel of his hands, to how those hands have probably taken a life... or two. How he could probably throw my head to the side, snap my neck, and not break a sweat.

And no one will miss you.

He stares at my open mouth, the vulnerability I feel set ablaze by his unwavering attention. I peer down through my lashes as he puts what looks like a white Q-Tip between my lips. A whimper of fear drifts up my throat, feeling utterly helpless. His eyes shift at the sound, now both a cool, crystal-clear blue ocean and a dark, tempestuous sea.

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