Page 8 of Theirs to Corrupt

With practiced ease, I weave through the space, dodging the occasional grabby hand. And I help table five before making my way over to Link and Pax.

Still, I can’t help but smooth the front of my apron into place, which is ridiculous. After all, I’m not nervous. They’re just customers. Like all the others.

When I stop near them, I’m nearly knocked sideways by the aura of lethal command they both radiate.

How wrong I’d been a minute ago.

These men are anything butjustcustomers.

Link rests against the back of the tired booth like it’s a throne, his classic, tailored suit a stark contrast to the bar’s shabby decor.

Even in the dim light, I notice the hint of stubble that makes him look devilishly appealing.

Stupid to notice.

And Pax…Dear heavens.

A black leather motorcycle jacket is on the seat next to him, leaving his broad chest and sculpted arms on full display. The fabric of his black T-shirt hugs every ridge and valley of his upper body, and it’s all I can do not to stare.

I force politeness, hoping not to betray the butterflies dancing in my stomach. “What can I get for you?”

Link’s eyes, dark and intense, never leave my face. “The usual, little dove. And a round for everyone in the bar.”

“For everyone?”What game are you playing?

“You heard me.”

“Got it.” I turn to head back to the bar. But the sound of Link’s voice reaches me.

“Nikki?”

I consider pretending I didn’t hear him.

But I have no doubt he’d make a scene if it suited him, so I stop and glance back.

Then I wish I hadn’t because I’m caught in his gaze, like a mouse to a cat.

“You’re ours for the evening.”

The undercurrent of authority makes me swallow hard. Then I hurry back to the relative safety of the bar top.

“They’re buying a round for all the customers,” I tell Marge.

“I see.” Saying nothing else, she nods, then rings a big brass bell.

When she has everyone’s attention, she calls out, “Your next drink is on the gentlemen in that booth!” She points.

People cheer and clap, and Link laps up the adoration.

Asshole loves being the center of attention.

Even mine.

As Marge pours their stupidly expensive drinks—Bonds whiskey that is kept tucked away on a top shelf, reserved exclusively for them—I lean against the wood, trying to calm my racing heart.

Why am I letting these men affect me like this?

“You sure you’re okay, sugar?” Marge asks, her weathered face creased with concern.

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