Page 47 of Inked Adonis

I gaze up at her. “Only when I run out of nightmares.”

She frowns as she lowers herself gracefully into the empty seat. Male eyes flick in her direction from every corner of the room. I can only pity the poor bastards. I remember when her charms used to work on me.

“You’re looking well,” she murmurs, reaching across the table with manicured talons. “Success agrees with you.”

“And yet you’re doing your best to bring that to a grinding halt.”

Her frown flashes again. Just for an instant, her lip curdles. “Oh, Sammy, what conspiracies have you talked yourself into now, hm?”

I let her fingers hover inches from mine, savoring her growing uncertainty. “You tell me. How’s the Andropov deal working out?”

Her laugh shatters like cheap crystal. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, darling.”

The “darling” is her tell—has been since I first met her. But she’s always been good at lying, at making men see what they want to see. I watch her eyes, those amber pools that used to drown me. Now, I just see shallow waters hiding sharp rocks.

“Really?” I keep my voice casual, bored even. “Because their sudden interest in Litvinov’s European holdings seems suspiciously well-informed.”

She takes a deliberate sip of water, but I catch the slight tremor in her hand. “If you’re having trouble keeping your clients happy, that’s hardly my concern.”

Her shoulders are too straight, her smile too sharp. She’s trying to find her footing, to figure out my angle. I can practically see her running calculations behind those cold eyes.

“Speaking of things that are yours, I found something.” I let the words hang between us like bait.

Her perfectly shaped brows draw together. “Oh? And what would that be?”

Instead of answering, I reach for my phone. The way her fingers tighten around her water glass is subtle—you’d miss it if you weren’t looking for it.

But I am. I always am.

I slide my phone across the white tablecloth like I’m dealing the winning hand in poker. The video plays: Rufus sprawled across my leather couch like he owns the place, his giant head resting on Nova’s lap while she scratches behind his ears.

I study Kat’s face, cataloging what isn’t there. No worried mother demanding her fur baby’s return. No questions about her dog walker’s safety. Not even a flicker of concern that her eight-thousand-dollar purebred is essentially being held hostage.

Just that familiar curl of her lip, the one that always preceded her cruelest cuts.

“Keep the stupid mutt.” She tosses her hair back, all pretense of seduction gone. “It always preferred your closet anyway. Probably sensed a kindred spirit—another dumb beast who can’t let go of the past.”

The words are meant to wound, but they reveal so much more than she intends. Because a woman who actually cared about her dog wouldn’t say that. Wouldn’t react like this.

“You should’ve told me you were bringing me here to waste my time,” she spits. “The martinis taste like piss anyway.”

Then she’s gone. Her stilettos stab the floor like daggers as she storms out.

But as she departs, truth hits me with the force of a knockout punch—two devastating blows in rapid succession.

One: Kat’s complete lack of concern about Nova. No rage about a stolen employee, no hints of a plan gone wrong.

Which means Nova almost certainly isn’t working for her. Probably never was.

Two: The stark difference between them. Nova knows where Rufus likes to be scratched. She sings to him when she thinks no one’s listening. Compared to Kat, who just dismissed him like last season’s handbag, she’s a fucking saint.

The relief hits so hard my knees nearly buckle. I grip the edge of the table, steadying myself against the weight of what I’m feeling. What this means.

The restaurant air suddenly feels thick, unbreathable. I throw enough cash on the table to cover both bills and a generous tip—not because Kat deserves the courtesy, but because I refuse to let her affect even this small detail of my life.

Back at the office, I close the door and boot up my computer. As soon as I cue it up, security footage plays on my monitor in crisp high-def, like some twisted reality show where I’m both producer and captive audience.

It shows Nova curled up on my couch, reading aloud to Rufus from what looks like a dog training manual. Her laugh when he licks her face makes something in my chest squeeze painfully tight.

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