Page 73 of Wicked Proposal
I promptly abandon every man demanding my attention.
“Tell me where she went,” I snarl as I approach and slam my hands down on the counter, rattling bottles of champagne.
The bartender blinks back at me, confused. “Pardon me, sir?”
“The woman. Short, petite, black lacy dress.”
He gives me another lost look. With a glance at the couches, I realize I’m describing almost every girl in here.
“Brown hair, light,” I tell him, my patience slipping. “Blue eyes. She’s got a beauty mark right here, under her lip.”
Finally, the bartender’s expression lights up. “Oh! Yes, of course. She went to the smoking terrace with a gentleman.”
I fucking doubt it.
No one here’s a gentleman, least of all one who’d take another man’s woman to the “smoking terrace”—a well-known code for something else around here.
But it wouldn’t be well-known to Mia, would it?
This is your world, not hers.
Youbrought her here.
Youdid this. You did all of this.
So what are you gonna do if something happens to her?
I head to the smoking lounge without a second’s thought. The elevator pings next to me, but I don’t pay it any mind. Instead, I take the stairs two by two, praying I’m not too late.
If something happened to her…My fists clench, fury exploding in my knuckles.IfIlet something happen to her…
That dark, amused voice in my head chuckles.Then what?It grates against the walls of my mind.That’s the whole point, remember? For something to happen to her. Get shot at, kidnapped, dismembered—you name it. Anything to get you closer to your goal.
So what if it happened tonight?
“No,” I spit under my breath. “No one touches her. Not until I say so.”
I’m a fucking hypocrite. I know that. But now is not the time to deal with introspection.
I just need to find this fucking woman.
“Stop,” I hear as soon as I step out into the terrace.
A woman’s voice.
Mia’svoice.
“Aren’t you a coy little one?” Ieronim slurs. He’s way too drunk to be standing. Definitely way too drunk to be shoving his handsup Mia’s dress, squeezing her ass like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. “So demure. Making me work for it, are ya?”
“N-no,” Mia gasps. It’s brittle, quivering, terrified. “I—I don’t want?—”
“C’mon, sweet thing.” He takes a whiff of her neck and grinds her harder into the railing. “You know you want it.”
Mia freezes. Like a deer in the headlights. A doll with her strings cut.
She just—stops. Stops doing anything.
Stop pushing him off, talking, resisting.
