Page 167 of The Owner's Temptation

“You think she’ll understand?” I ask. “That it’s just a fetish?”

I lean back slightly, then stand, smoothing my blazer down with one hand.

“I’m not here to kink-shame, Bill. I own a club where every kink imaginable gets indulged. But outthere?” I nod toward the world beyond the glass walls. “People aren’t so understanding. Reporters, especially.”

He begins to sob quietly.

I reach around my back, draw my Glock, and slam his head back against the booth before jamming the barrel into his mouth.

He screams around it, muffled and pathetic.

“Betray me again,” I whisper, “and I’ll fuck your life up so thoroughly, sounrelentingly,that you’ll beg Lorenzo to end it for you. You’llswallowthat bullet yourself just to escape the wreckage I leave behind.”

His shoulders quake, tears pouring down his cheeks.

“And your poor widow,” I murmur, dragging the barrel just slightly. “She’ll need comfort. A firm hand. A mouth that doesn’t lie.”

He sobs harder.

“How long do you think it’ll take before she begs me to fuck her out of mourning you, Bill? Before she lets me tie her up and show her what it’s like to be fucked by a man who actually finishes what he starts?”

He’s sayingplease—I can hear it in the way he gags on the steel.

I shove the barrel in deeper, forcing his head back as he chokes on it.

Then, slowly, I pull it out.

I grab the cloth napkin from his lap and wipe the Glock clean. Fold it neatly. Set it back on the table.

“Your suicide will be the least memorable part of your legacy,” I say. “Do you understand?”

He nods frantically, mouthingyesagain and again.

I grab his jaw, hard, squeezing until his lips pucker.

“Say it,stallion.Do you understand?”

“Y-yes,” he chokes. “Yes, yes, yes.”

He won’t betray me again.

Not unless he wants to die choking on more than just his secrets.

I leave him there, still shaking, still sobbing quietly in the booth that now smells like his piss.

The restaurant is silent except for the sound of my steps across the marble floor. My Glock rests cool against my back again, but the heat pulsing through me isfarfrom cooled.

Outside, my black SUV idles at the curb. The sky’s turned heavy with summer dusk—warm, gold-edged, and lying to everyone about the storm rolling in.

My driver stands beside the open door. He looks at me like he’s already apologizing.

Never a good sign.

“What the fuck is it?” I snap, not breaking stride.

He clears his throat. “Sir… it’s Miss Knight.”

I stop.

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