Page 42 of Vicious Hearts

Intimatelyclose. As close as two humans can be, actually.

I shiver as my body remembers the brutality of his touch. The punishing kisses. The vicious thrust of his hips that tore through more than my virginity.

He cut open my inhibitions that night, too. He poured gasoline on my darkest, most depraved and hidden kinks and set a match to them—fantasies and desires I’d never admitted to another person.

I turn and pluck a glass of champagne from a passing tray as I scan the room, looking forhim.

For his dark, malevolent energy. For those venomous green eyes that I’d know anywhere.

“Miss?”

I startle, almost spilling my champagne as I whirl, my hand flying to my clutch. But the ruddy-faced older man with a lieutenant’s bar on his uniform grinning at me is very muchnotCillian.

“Didn’t notice a ring,” he smiles. “Think I could steal you for a dance?”

“Oh, I…” I smile, swallowing back my nerves—and half my champagne. “Sure!”

I mean I do still need to tour the room. But if Cillian sees me before I spot him, I might as well have an NYPD lieutenant twirling me around the dance floor when he does.

The lieutenant beams as I set my glass on another passing tray and move to take his hands.

Which is the exact moment I feel it, like a cold breeze blowing in through an open door. Like black paint being dripped into clear water, swirling and darkening and spreading.

Like vicious energy sliding over my skin.

“Lieutenant O’Reilly.”

The older man’s gaze snaps past me, and a look halfway between abject fear and a sycophantic smile floods his face when he lays eyes on him.

Cillian.

“Ah! Mr. Kildare!”

I stiffen, not wanting to turn and face him, but understanding it would look weirdnotto. So I take a breath, and slowly, I swivel. The instant my eyes find his, I can see it plainly.

Yeah. He knowsexactlywho I am.

“Dan. I see you’ve met my date for the evening.”

I can feel the poor lieutenant stiffen behind me as he sputters.

“Your date! I—my humblest apologies, Mr. Kildare, I didn’t realize—”

Cillian laughs—not viscously or maliciously. It’s a warm, non-threatening, full-body, eye-twinkling belly laugh.

He’s good.

But it’s not perfect. It may be practiced to the point of near perfection in its ability to mask the monster beneath. But, if you look closely—and, trust me, I do—you can see that blackness seeping out at the edges, like ink bleeding out from underneath a mask.

“Please, not at all. But I’m afraid I do need to steal her back now.”

His eyes snap so sharply to mine that the very blood in my veins chills.

He’s been waiting for me. That’s what the poisonous look in his eyes says.

Crap, I think I just walked into a trap. And the nerves jangling up my spine and the hairs standing up on the back of my neck tell me it’s time to get the hell out of here.

“Oh, Cillian,” I laugh, not quite as convincingly as him. “Surely a six-figure donation to heroes like Lieutenant O’Reilly can come with just one little dance?”

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