Page 31 of Silent Schemes
Not this.
Not someone who sees through every mask I wear and doesn't flinch.
"Is this what you want?" I whisper, going up on my toes to bring my mouth close to his ear. "The dangerous woman in your bed? The knife at your throat while you sleep?"
His hands come to my waist, and I expect him to push me away.
Instead, he spins us, backs me against the window.
The glass is cold against my spine, his body furnace-hot against my front.
Vancouver spreads out twenty stories below us, and I'm acutely aware that nothing but glass separates me from falling.
"Idon'tsleep," he says, his voice rough like gravel. "Haven't in years. Too many ghosts haunt me."
"We all have ghosts," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "The difference is whether you're running from them or toward them."
"And which are you doing, Sienna?"
"Both. Always both."
His hand comes up to my throat, not squeezing, just resting there. "That's what makes you dangerous. You don't know if you're predator or prey."
I can feel my pulse hammering against his palm. "But you already knew that. Just like I know about the Romano heir. How he tried to touch Maya first, before you intervened. How you made him suffer for hours before you let him die."
My breath catches. No one knows that. No oneshouldknow that.
"How—"
"I have eyes everywhere, Sienna. The question is what we do with what we see."
His thumb traces the line of my jaw, and I hate how my body responds.
This isn't how it's supposed to go.
I'm supposed to be in control, using my body as a weapon, making him weak with want.
Instead, I'm the one trembling as his other hand slides up my ribs, thumb brushing just beneath the curve of my breast through his shirt I'm wearing.
"You want to seduce me," he says, and it's not a question. "Been planning it since you walked into my casino. How were you going to do it? Slow and sweet, make me think you're falling for me? Or fast and dirty, get me addicted to the danger of you?"
I reach for the knife I've hidden—even wearing his clothes, I'm not unarmed—and press it against his ribs.
The blade is sharp enough to slide between them with minimal pressure.
His response is to press closer, letting the tip pierce his skin just enough to draw a bead of blood.
"There she is," he murmurs, and he sounds pleased. "TherealSienna. Not Theodore's weapon. Not the perfect daughter. Just you—beautiful and lethal and lost."
"I'm not lost."
"No?" He leans down, his lips brushing my ear. "Then why are you shaking?"
Because I am.
My whole body is vibrating with something that isn't fear but should be.
His hand at my throat slides around to tangle in my hair, tugging my head back to expose more of my neck.
