Page 52 of Reckless Hearts

Nothing but screw with my life, that is.

There’s still a small voice in the back of my head whispering for me to hit the stop button, go back to the lobby, and run—not walk—out of this building and never, ever look back.

Even after last night. Even after the way Deimos crowbarred his way into my most secretive, dark fantasies and held them up to the light.

What if I were to tie you up, or pin you down and fuck you without mercy?

What if I were to chase you and fuck you like an animal in heat, heedless of your consent.

While you’re asleep, Dahlia.

He shouldn’t know those things about me. Nobody should. I shouldn’twant them. But that’s not the issue right now. The issue is, Deimos Drakos somehow is holding my darkest desires in the palm of his hand. And I can already feel him squeezing as his fingers tighten around them, and me.

I should run.

Cut my losses andrun. But I can’t, and I won’t. Not after everything my mother’s gone through to get me where I am today and give me the amazing life I have. She’s gone through hell and back for me.

I can survive Deimos for her.

The doors open to the office. I step out, half expecting him to jump out of the shadows of the empty office again and say boo.

But this morning, things are different.

It’s still not a functioning office. But it’s not empty anymore. Boxes and crates of what look like basic office infrastructure—chairs, desks, cubicle walls, and more—fill the space on one side. On the other, there now stands an l-shaped glass wall, boxing in a corner of room by the window.

And sitting inside it, at a massive wooden desk, a wall of bookshelves already installed behind him, is the dark prince himself.

Deimos looks up when I wander into the midst of the boxes and bits of unassembled cubicle walls. His eyes flash with a sort of malice as he stands from his desk chair and paces leisurely to the open glass and black metal door to his new corner office.

“You look tired.”

I frown, glaring at him as he walks out. Wow. He always dressed well when we were in school, but Deimos the man—the boss standing in front of me—cuts aseriouslysharp figure.

A blacker-than-black, surgically tailored suit jacket and pants, with a gunmetal-gray vest beneath, a crisp white shirt with French cuffs, and a thin black tie.

I flush as he prowls toward me, instantly replaying what happened last night.

The possessive, controlling feel of him gripping my hand and fucking me with his and my fingers.

Making me taste myself.

Tasting me himself, too.

“What?” I blurt as he comes to a stop in front of me.

“I said you look tired, Dahlia.”

“Well…” I shrug and look away from him as I set my bag down on a box. “I didn’t sleep well.”

“Maybe you should go to sleep at a reasonable hour instead of staying up jerking off like a horny teenaged boy.”

I wish I had the self-control to brush off his comment like it’s nothing. But I don’t. There’s no halting the way my head whips around to stare at him, my eyes bulging in horror.

“W…what?” I choke out.

Deimos smiles coldly, but neither says nor doesanythingto address the shock and shame on my face.

What the fuck, is he spying on me?

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