Page 32 of Volatile Obsessions

I stilled at his unexpected touch, all but holding my breath as I eyed the ink adorning his skin. The words etched on that curve between his thumb and forefinger called out to me most.

Your throat here.

I almost whimpered aloud at the visual his tattoo offered. Heaven help me. “Nothing personal, King, but I don’t share with anyone,” I murmured, inhaling a shaky breath.

The air, thick and heavy around us, drowned out the conversation in entirety. He was just watching me again and I couldn’t stop myself from staring back either, completely hypnotized by the glow of glacial blues.

“And that right there will be what ends your reign,” he whispered, dropping his gaze to my lips…and mine to his, too. “Just remember we had this conversation when your throne goes up in flames. Remember you could have spared yourself imminent doom, Lux.”

The way he purred my name, how his tongue caressed it, dotted my skin with dozens of goose pimples, those small, thin baby hairs at the nape of my neck rising at attention. Still, I held my head high, reminding myself to breathe. “If anyone should be worried about imminent doom, it’s you. I wasn’t kidding, Roman. I’m not the woman to mess with.”

“Do your worst,” he challenged, like he still didn’t understand—or believe—the gravity of my words.

Suddenly, I was all for feeding into his childish little game. He truly wanted to war with me, then a war we would have. It was on without question.

“You can count on it,” I promised him, pushing off his desk and sauntering toward Roscoe by the doors. “Oh, and Roman?” The question came from over my shoulder.

“Hmmm?”

“Tag, you’re it,” I purred, snapping my fingers at Roscoe as I slipped past him and started down the way I came.

And just as I was pushing out of the distillery into another humid Miami night, Vic and Roscoe lit the place up without mercy, the rapid firing of their rifles sounding like fireworks on the fourth of July.

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