Page 24 of Vice

But worse than that, it would put Pray onto me.

There’s no way he wouldn’t hear about me killing all these men and people in this one place for no apparent reason. He wouldn’t even need to hear me out if he was inclined to. He’d know I was up to something. Even if I could convince him that I wasn’t, an incident like massacring an entire fucking building of people for no apparent reason is bond to make him decide that I’m too much of a loose cannon for him to keep around.

I’d have to kill Pray or be killed. But it’s much too soon for that. Not enough people and systems and logistics in place for a successful coup. In a year, I may be able to swing it. But to do it right now would only fracture the entire business. And my goal in all this isn’t more fucking war. It’s a peaceful—and if not that, a tenuous rule and alliance—so I can fucking raise my kids.

Damn it.

Damn it all to hell.

There’s no choice here.

Either I do it or someone else is going to. And someone else doing it is the quickest way for me to throw all caution to the wind and kill everyone in the building.

“Well. If you insist,” I say somewhat flippantly as I push the other woman out my lap.

I’m technically talking to Travis, but my eyes don’t leave Dele. If she gives the word, any signal, I’ll throw all caution to the wind and burn this place to the ground.

Dele’s more practical than that, though. So I’m unsurprised when her eyes harden and her jaw clenches. Resignation. Reluctant. Like she wants to say to hell with this. But resignation all the same.

“Come here, girl.”

Dele’s eyes flash with defiance that’s not even remotely feigned. She’s always hated being called that. A girl. Because when she was younger it was what people called her when they didn’t take her or her skills seriously. The sentiment never lasted long for the unfortunate soul who had to find out otherwise.

“Do what he says,” Harp snaps at her. “Or you’ll face something worse afterward.”

I wasn’t particularly fond of Harp before. Now I’m certainly not. But both Dele and I have a role to play.

“Come on,” I say, leaning forward. “I don’t bite.” A beat. “Much.”

People chuckle as though what I said is the funniest thing they’ve ever heard.

Dele doesn’t appreciate that either but walks over to me all the same.

“Strip,” I order.

It seems like the natural place to start. Of everyone here, Dele’s the only one with all her clothes on still. The French maid outfit. The fishnet stockings. The ballerina slipper shoes.

As always. Dele can’t help herself and says, “No.”

I tilt my head, wondering if this was her plan all along. To get me to play her game. But there’s no way she could have known this would happen. Likely, she’s just decided to go with it.

Either way, I can’t let such disobedience go unpunished.

I stand to my feet. Dele knows what’s coming. So instead of falling to the floor when I slap her, she has time to brace herself for it and only stumbles back dazed instead.

“I can either make this easy, or I can make it hard for you. Your choice,” I growl. “Now strip.”

She gives me a final glare as I sit back down. One that can’t be feigned.

Then she begins to strip.

I don’t have to tell her to take it slow for me. She does it herself. Methodically and deliberately. Maybe to delay standing naked in front of all these men. Maybe to make me wait. Either way, she starts by slipping off her shoes. Then she reaches under her dress and pushes down her stockings.

She’s about to bend from her knees when I stop her and say, “No. Do it from the waist. And turn around. I wanna see your ass.”

She glares at me yet again, but turns around nonetheless, bends from the waist, and takes off her stockings, giving me a perfect view of her ass under her skirt.

I reach down to stroke my hard cock through my trousers. Fuck. The things she does to me even in an impossible situation like this.

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