Page 30 of Dance of Deception

“If you were out spilling blood without me, I’ll be pissed,” he mutters. “I’m starving.”

The woman in his lap laughs softly, clueless. She runs her hands through his hair, tugging gently.

She'd better have brought running shoes if she wants to play with him.

No. The Wolf doesn’t "play" at all.

He chases. Hunts. Devours.

The Bull chuckles, pulling my attention to him.

He’s surrounded.

Women cling to him, manicured fingers running over the thick, muscled lines of his shoulders and arms, draping themselves over him as if drawn to his sheer size and power.

He shakes them off, ignoring their pouting protests as he stands from the couch. He steps forward, broad-shouldered and imposing, the dim light casting deep shadows across his heavy frame.

“The Russians are starting to make more noise than usual,” he says. His voice is as always edged with violence, every word an invitation for a fight.

I don’t respond right away, and his mask tilts to me slightly.

“At some point, we do need to talk about this, Hound.”

I glance at him. “Obviously. But we knew as we grew in stature that murmurings from the major families and the various seats of power would be inevitable.”

His hands flex at his sides. His massive shoulders roll slowly.

“Well, there’s a certain head of a certain family who seems ready to start hunting usnow.”

Yeah. I know who he’s talking about. But it’s not a problem—notyet, anyway.

“All I’m saying,” The Bull growls, “is that perhaps it might be a good idea to preemptively takehishead before he tries to take one of ours.”

That's…not a figure of speech.

Of all of us, The Bull craves violence the most. Not as a necessity. Not even to mete out justice.

He just likes it.

His bloodlust is almost absurd. Where The Wolf needs the kill to feel sane, The Bull enjoys it the way another man might enjoy fine whiskey, savoring every drop.

“The Russians don’t like us,” The Raven observes.

The Bull snorts. “No shit. They don’t like the idea of power they don’t control.”

“More than that,” The Raven says. “They don’t like power they don’tunderstand.”

That’s the truth of it.

The Black Court doesn’t play by anyone’s rules.

Not the Russians'—neither the Iron Table nor the High Council. Not The Italian Commission. Not the various syndicates, or theYakuza, the Triads, or any of the other seats of power in the underworld.

We are the ones who decide what rules look like.

The Wolf snaps a lighter open and shut, open and shut, flicking the flame with a restless smirk. “So, when do we start cutting throats?”

The Bull chuckles. “I like where your head’s at, Wolf.”

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