Page 101 of Hate Mates

My objection to his crass description of Nadia and Luke’s relationship surges to the tip of my tongue. It dies a swift death when the hidden meaning in his admission dawns. Luke Hayes’ file is missing a vital detail. One that’s going to make my job harder than expected.

Blinking too fast, I extend my hand to Sander.

He’s slow to react.

“I’ll take care of him.” The agile fingers that wrap around mine are shaking. I ignore it, deciding that the temporary truce between us is more important than stamping my authority over the situation. “I won’t push him into anything he doesn’t want.” My entire body recoils from the idea of sexual intimacy. I feign nonchalance like the professional I am to offer my final caveat to our ceasefire. “And I promise he won’t come to any harm at my?—”

“I hope not,” Sander interjects as we shake hands one last time. “’Cause I meant every word I said earlier.”

Without deigning to respond to his mediocre threat, I sidestep Sander and disappear deeper into the large room. It’s easy to wind my way through the drunken partiers. I avoid sweaty bodies and handsy men. Bypass Hunter’s corner. Sidestep the tables where the youngest of the Mayberry siblings sit and drink with their biker brethren.

The back exit I breach barely offers a challenge for my lock picks.

The pair of hands that wrap around my throat and squeeze poses more of an issue.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you.”

As I peer up at Luke Hayes, my mind is blank.

His blue eyes.

The shock of ginger hair.

Dozens of freckles decorate his chiselled facial features.

Pouty lips with the Cupid’s bow women pay for.

He is long, lanky, inflexible, and full of menace.

I should hate him.

Idohate him.

But damned if he isn’t the first ever man to make my pulse race and my core clench...

THREE

Cub

The fast thrum of Layla De La Rue’s heartbeat beneath my double handed grip should kick my conscience into gear. It doesn’t. If anything, the knowledge that I have her life in my hands feels like kismet. I’m the one in charge. For the first time, I hold the power, and she dances to my tune, not the other way around.

It’s enthralling.

I like it.

We glare at each other until I break eye contact to scrutinise the changes in her.

She’s a contradiction.

Exuding wealth while projecting an air of punk rock.

Her black ringed eyes with the smudged eye shadow. The thick foundation that’s two shades lighter than her natural skin colour. Hair that’s dyed into a raven sheet devoid of sun kissed highlights. A blunt fringe that conceals her gaze. Contacts that turn her eyes green instead of the pretty brown I know them to be.

She’s hiding in plain sight.

The outfit she’s wearing is also a costume.

Torn black jeans that hang from her hips on a whisper and a prayer. The titanium piercings that decorate her ears, left nostril, and the little dimple under her bottom lip are a warning. Her boots wouldn’t look out of place on the back of my Harley... or in my bed.

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