Page 39 of Kings Against the World

A fact obvious from the first time I ever set eyes on her months ago in the Steel Saloon, but in this moment it’s like a spotlight’s been dropped on her, and in a crowded room full of people, it’s magnified times a million.

Nobody else is like her. Nobody stands out like she does.

She’s one of a kind, even when wearing the same barely there costume as every other woman here tonight.

Her smooth, dark-brown skin radiates in the golden-hued lighting, damn near putting me under a trance. The outfit shows off how fit and toned she is, her stomach a flat valley I can’t help imagining my tongue running down. All while she wraps those long, silky fucking legs around me.

I can hear the moan falling from her full, red-painted lips and envision how her almond-shaped, hazel eyes would snap shut.

But it’s not just physical that stops me like this—it’s the fact that I know the truth about her. Zoe Strauss isn’t just some club girl hoping for a generous tip; she’s deeper than that, on a real mission to bring down bad men who more than deserve it.

She’s strong, smart, and capable.

And batshit crazy. What kind of woman willingly puts herself in these circles knowing what could happen the moment she’s caught?

Yet she does it anyway. She does it unapologetically.

It even pisses her off when I intervene. When she needs me and deep down she knows it.

As if sensing my gaze on her, Zoe glances in my direction. Time might as well stop as we exchange unspoken words.

Confirmation that we’re on the same page for tonight; we’re partners on this.

She looks away, returning her attention to the men she’s serving with a smile.

I down more of my drink, still aware of the deep pull inside my chest.

“The man of the hour in the flesh.”

Boone appears in my line of vision with his usual dark shades and a cigarette smoking from between his lips. He’s grinning at me as he clutches his drink and blocks any view of Zoe.

“Man of the hour?” I laugh it off. “Nah, that ain’t me. More like you and Estrada. You’re the ones navigating this ship.”

“Maybe,” he concedes with a nod, then he steps toward me, putting an arm around my shoulder. “But you’re the real superstar of this tournament. Don’t you forget the arrangement we’ve got going. Without you, shit falls apart. I hope we’re still on good terms.”

“Why wouldn’t we be?”

Boone chuckles, dropping his arm. “Well, you damn near threw a fucking hissy fit last night. Left all of us scratching our heads wondering if Oz wasn’t as reliable as we thought.”

“I’m good. You know I am.”

“It was a respect thing, I get it. That’s your girl and it’s like somebody’s pissing in your Cheerios talking about how good she looks prancing around. But just remember one thing—respect is a two way street, isn’t it? You want respect? You better be fucking willing to give it.”

Pressure wells up inside my chest, though I don’t answer him. Boone speaks in a booming voice and puffs on his cigarettes and cigars like he’s the king of the world. He wears a shit-eating grin all while he lectures about respect.

It’s a warning. But it’s also a sign he thinks he’s untouchable. In a lot of ways, he has been.

He’s been heading his underground tournaments for years, evading the law while he trafficked guns, drugs, and people.

“I’ve got no problem, Boone,” I say finally. “As far as I’m concerned, we’re good.”

His grin spreads. “Excellent. Then how about you join me and the others for drinks? We’ve got some fucking amazing entertainment for the night.”

He leads the way to the lounge area where some of his men are already seated. I nod my head in acknowledgment at some of them, including Judd Simmons, who’s downing shots with Chmura. Judd gestures to me like we’re old friends.

“There he is!” he says. “I thought that was you earlier. All them fucking tattoos.”

Boone looks between us. “You two had a run in?”

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