Page 30 of Bitter Queen (Advantage Play 4)

Pushing himself up from his recliner, he goes to leave, but I scramble for his wrist. My fingers don’t even encompass the whole thing, but it’s enough to make him pause. The heat in his gaze licks at my skin as he stares down at my hand. It wouldn’t take much for him to get out of my grasp. Hell, a simple twist of his arm would do the trick. But he doesn’t move an inch.

“Tell me,” I plead. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Dragging his stare from my hand to my face, he shakes his head. “Everyone’s a little broken, Blue. Everyone has baggage—some more than others. But when you find the right guy who’s worth your time, they won’t give a shit about how much luggage they’ll have to carry. As long as they get to keep you for their prize.”

“And how will I know if he’s worth my time, D?”

That same indecision spreads across his face before he shrugs out of my hold. “Get some rest. We’ll talk more in the morning.”

Then he leaves.

And I’m left alone.

But for the first time since everything happened, I don’t crave the silence and peace that comes with it. I dread it.

I just want him.

10

Sei

Where is she?

Where is she?

Where is she?

The thought plays on a constant loop. Finally, I crack Burlone’s email password. My fingers fly across the keyboard as I search for where the hell my little Peach is hiding. Pushing aside my stringy, dark hair, I scroll through email after email.

Apple.

Apple.

Apple.

So many fucking apples. And each of them was a dime a dozen. Ugly women in the wrong place at the wrong time. Ripe for the picking. But my Peach? She was special. And I need to find her. There isn’t anything about passion fruit in Burlone’s emails. And even though my little Peach technically classifies as a passion fruit with her pretty face and hymen still intact, she’s still my little Peach. Delectable. Liked to explode on my tongue as I’d dig my teeth into her. Closing my eyes, I remember how sweet she tasted. Like candy. My mouth waters, and my cock hardens in my slacks.

Where is she?

With a tortured groan, I continue my search.

An email catches my eye. It’s dated three days before the tournament. Glancing at the clock, I open the email. Transcripts for a shipment. Requesting a sweet piece of unbruised fruit. Passion. One that had been discussed during a verbal agreement. To be delivered to Harry Johnson. Cocking my head to the side, I stop. The name is familiar.

There’s an address. I jot it down on my forearm with a Sharpie before capping the pen.

Seems I have a visit to make.

11

Diece

“Alright, Q. You ready?” I ask. The fan is blowing cool air down on us in the gym, and she rubs her hands against her bare arms as she bounces on the balls of her feet, trying to get pumped.

“Yeah. I’m ready.”

Striding over to the back corner of the room, I begin my search for today’s equipment. A cabinet tucked against one of the walls holds a few less conventional pieces of equipment, and I smile when I find exactly what I’m looking for.

“Today, we’re gonna practice using—and defending against—knives.”

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