Page 60 of Silver Elite

I nod at that, resignation settling. “A labor camp, then?”

“No. If you leave the Program, the only place you’re going is back to the stockade.”

“For how long?” I demand.

“For as long as I want to keep you there.”

Cross walks over to my fallen motorcycle. I watch the strong lines of his body as he bends to right the bike. I can’t escape the constant flutter of desire whenever I’m near that stupid body.

“Get on,” he orders.

I stay rooted in place. The stockade? God. No. I can’t go back there. Back to that small room with its tiny window and suffocating walls. He could keep me locked up in there for months, years even, out of pure spite. The prospect of losing what little freedom I have is terrifying. My mind races in search of an alternative.

“Please. Let me return to my ward.” I almost cringe at the desperation I hear in my voice.

He hears it, too, because when he walks toward me, his expression softens just a fraction, a hint of something almost like sympathy flickering in his gaze.

Then he says, “No.”

I gulp hard, the reality of my situation sinking in. “There has to be a way for us to reach some sort of agreement.” I study him for a long moment. “There must be something I can do to convince you to send me home.”

I don’t miss the way his eyes flare with heat. At least I think it’s heat. Could also be irritation. Revulsion.

But if thatwasheat…

I swallow again, this time to bring moisture to my suddenly dry mouth. I could do it. There’s no reason why I can’t. In fact, it would be easy to let myself become infected by the twisted morality that governs our world, where the ends always justify the means, no matter the cost.

I erase the distance between us. Neither of us says a word as we face off in the darkness. He’s so much bigger than I am. Taller, broader, more muscular. I feel small and vulnerable standing here with him, in the middle of the empty road. I run my trembling hands through my hair, tucking the tousled strands behind my ears. Cross’s gaze tracks my movements.

“Are you offering to fuck me, Dove?”

His visible humor has me tightening my lips. “If that’s what it takes to strike a deal, then sure, I suppose that’s what I’m offering.”

That dimple grooves his cheek, but his smile is more taunt than agreement. “Really? You’re willing to do anything to strike a deal?”

“Yes.”

His gaze rakes down my body, lingering on the dust coating my clothes, the blood caked onto the skin of my left arm, the arm that dragged along the gravel after I was thrown from the bike. This time, there’s no mistaking the desire in his eyes.

“All right.” His voice is thick, rough. “Come here.”

I can’t will my legs to move. I stand motionless, my pulse speeding up as I watch Cross bring both his hands to his waistband. I can scarcely breathe. In one deft motion, he pops open the button of his dark pants and then slides the zipper down.

He gives me an expectant look. “I don’t have all night.”

I’m finally able to suck in a breath, but it only succeeds in makingme lightheaded. I’m ashamed to feel my lower lip begin to quiver, and I slam my teeth down on it to stop the traitorous response. He’s not allowed to see how shaken I am.

“I…” I inhale again, then wrest my gaze away from his smirking face. “I withdraw the offer.”

“That’s what I thought.”

The asshole is laughing at me as he zips up his pants. He knew from the start I’d never do it. He was just toying with me.

I jolt when I suddenly feel him beside me. His hip jostles mine, our arms brushing, as his mouth hovers right above my ear.

“You’d make a terrible whore, Dove.”

Indignation shoots through me. I shove him away from me, breathing through the anger. “Screw you.”

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