Page 13 of Immortal Throne

I bolted up so fast I knocked the coffee from his hand. The cup sailed through the room and splattered against the wall. Black liquid dripped down the off-white paint, making trails to the floor. The smell of coffee filled the air, but I kept my eyes on Mr. Dante.

He stood when I did, towering over me. The cut of his designer suit did a great job of hiding his immense size and strength, but this close, I couldn’t possibly ignore the difference in our height and size.

“There you are,” he growled. “Finally.”

“What?”

“I was wondering how long it would take for you to grow a spine and show your true self.”

“What are you talking about? Are you out of your mind?”

His grin grew. “Your demon self.”

Oh, so he was bonkers. A complete whacko.

Just perfect. Just fucking perfect. My last well-paying posting that was supposed to fund my bucket list ended up being a sick joke for some lunatic.

Story of my life.

I balled my hands into fists and kicked the shoe-cleaning supplies away from me. “You know what? I don’t need a paycheck this badly. I quit.”

I spun to leave, but I didn’t get very far. I didn’t even see him move. One moment, the double doors to freedom were in my sight, and the next, Mr. Dante had me pinned up against the wall beside the splattered remains of his coffee.

He pressed my arms above my head and leaned in close as if to kiss me. Anticipation zinged through my body.

What the fuck?

This is not how I should react to this situation. Some guy had pinned me to a wall, and I reacted with lust instead of rage? I cursed, hating my traitorous body once again.

Not as much as I hated him, though.

“I’m not a demon, you weirdo,” I drove my knee up to his groin.

He jerked back and blocked it easily by shifting to the side.

I stomped on his foot.

Nothing.

I kicked his knee and tried to jerk my hands down.

His grip tightened, keeping my wrists exactly where they were, and grinned. “That’s right. Let your demon out to play.”

He moved my arms so he could hold both wrists in one giant hand and used his other to tug my shirt from my pants.

“Don’t touch me, asshole.” My mind ran through all the possible maneuvers to get out of his hold, but something in his darkening gaze told me to hold off.

“I’m already touching you.” He pressed into my wrists more. “And I’m not enjoying it.”

He yanked down on the waistband of my pants, not enough to take them off, just enough to expose the pale skin over my hip bone and the scar from an unfortunate campfire incident.

“This is workplace harassment,” I said.

“Go ahead and sue me. You have the mark.”

“I have a scar,” I clarified. “So what?”

“Look at it.”

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