Page 50 of The Final Contract
No tongue. Barely there. But enough. Enough to nearly shatter the fragile hold Killian’s got on himself. His hand flexes into a fist, dangerously close to the knife at his side, and I keep my eyes locked on him the entire time. Smiling, wicked, daring.
“Let’s go,” he growls. Low, lethal, sending a shiver down my spine.
I step past Barrett with a flirty, “See you around.”
Killian falls into step behind me. Following me into the hall like the storm he is. The elevator attendant waits, holding the door. We step inside.
It’s like walking with a hurricane at my back, pretending it isn’t about to tear me apart.
The doors close. Tension builds with each floor, pressing tighter, hotter, until the lobby’s lights flood through the crack of the opening doors.
I head for the exit, chin high. But his grip clamps around my upper arm—firm, commanding, unyielding—and wrenches me to the right.
“Killian—” I exclaim under my breath.
He says nothing.
The ladies’ room door slams against the wall as he shoves me inside. Two women at the mirror startle, lipstick tubes clattering.
“Out.”
One word. Barked, brutal. They scatter, heels urgently tapping out their retreat, leaving me alone with the tempest I dared to poke.
The door slams shut behind us, echoing off the tile. The air is thick—perfume and powder from the women who just fled—but all I smell is her.
She tries to stand tall, chin lifted, like she’s in control.
My laugh is sharp, humorless. “You think you’re clever, don’t you?”
She blinks at me, feigning innocence. “What are you talking about?”
I crowd her back against the counter, planting my hands on either side of her hips. No space. No air. Just me pressing in until she has nowhere left to go.
“You know exactly what the fuck I’m talking about.” My voice is low, dangerous, meant for her alone. “Walking out on my men. Letting him put his hands on you. Pretending this was about him.”
Her lips curve, the smallest, smug smile. “Wasn’t it?”
“Bullshit.” I lean in, so close my mouth brushes her ear. “This wasn’t about Hall. This was about me. You wanted me to see it. To feel it.”
Her lashes flutter, but her tone stays cool. “You’re imagining things.”
I tip my head, study her, then pull my phone from my pocket and shove it in her face. The video glows between us—grainy club footage. Not her. Me. The stalker zooming in closer and closer while I watched her across the room.
“That’s what you’re calling imagination?” I snarl. “He was in the club tonight. Filming me, because he knows I’m the wall between him and you. And you ran off like some teenager rebelling against her parents.”
She stiffens, but her chin doesn’t drop. Always stubborn—and God if I don’t want to fucking break it.
I lean in, mouth ghosting along her jaw, my words a growl against her skin. “Say it, Seraphina. Admit it.”
She shakes her head, playing dumb. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
Fine. If she won’t use her mouth for the truth, I’ll make her body speak it for her.
I drag one hand down her side, slow, deliberate. Her breath catches, but she keeps her eyes fixed on mine, defiant. My palm curves over her thigh, thumb pressing the hem of her dress higher until I’m sliding beneath.
She stiffens. “Don’t?—”
“You don’t want me to stop.” My voice is quiet, razor-sharp. “You want me to prove you’re a liar.”
