Page 77 of Reckless Hearts

“There’s a much simpler solution.” I smile at her quizzical look as I extend my hand, palm up. “Give them to me.”

Dahlia stares at me, her throat bobbing.

“I—what?”

“Your panties. It’s distracting seeing them as you fumble your way through these chairs. I’m telling you to take them off so that isn’t an issue going forward.”

Her cheeks turn pink. I don’t even blink, keeping my gaze locked with hers. I crook my fingers.

“I’m confident I was clear. Now, Dahlia.”

I can see the venom swirling behind her eyes and bubbling right behind her lips. But she clamps them shut, glaring at me.

“I’m counting to three, at which point…” Her eyes bulge in shock as I flick a switchblade out from my jacket pocket. “At which point, I’ll be cutting them off.”

“Okay, okay! Jeez…” her face burns with something I’d love for her to claim is anything but excitement as she turns away. I’m confident I hear her mutter something to the effect of “psychopath” under her breath as her hand slips under her skirt.

“Here,” she blurts, turning and shoving a pair of lacy black panties into my hand.

They’re warm.

…And not entirely dry.

I’m about to bring them to my nose when I hear a slow clapping sound across the large office space. Dahlia gasps, whirling in shock. But I groan to myself, eyes narrowing when my gaze lands on the culprit.

Goddamnit.

“I heard you were back in the city…” Raquel’s manicured brows arch, painted nails daintily pushing back locks of platinum blonde. Her eyes land on the garment in my fist, and I see something vicious flicker behind them as they raise to mine. “I guess old habits don’t go away, do they, Deimos?”

As if I needed another reminder of why I fucking hate this city: because it’s filled with women like Raquel.

Four years ago, before my siblings moved back here, I was back and forth between London and New York helping out with the family business here. Our Uncle Vasilis, before he was killed, ran the New York side of the Drakos empire for a while, and it fell on me somehow to be the back-and-forth guy.

Being that I fucking loathe New York, I occupied as much of my free time as I could with empty vices to block it all out.

One of those empty vices ended up being Raquel.

We met at a place called Club Venom—a place built for the dark, dangerous, and deviant of New York’s underworld. Part kink club, part clandestine meeting place for those with money, power, connections, and illicit tastes.

Scary asshole that I may be, I don’t lie to people. At least, I don’t lie to women the way a lot of men do. My intentions are naked and brutally honest: I want to fuck—hard and rough, and in ways that will most likely terrify them and go way past their comfort zones. And that isallI want.

Not their phone number. Not their name. Not their interest in a repeat.

I am very clear in all of this. And yet, people mostly only hear what they want to. In Raquel’s case, it wasnothearing what shedidn’twant to.

She wasn’t the first woman to think she’d “fix me” or “change me”. But if there was ever a list of potential “fixers” of me, she’d be at the goddamn bottom. Raquel didn’t just ignore my rules. She was, and presumably still is, a cruel person.

I’m an asshole, and a narcissist with a God complex. But Raquel is a cold-hearted bitch who enjoys being cruel to people she considers less than her, because she thinks it builds her up. And odd though it may sound, I find outright cruelty to be a turnoff—doubly so when it’s paired with desperation.

We hooked up all of once, four fucking years ago. Or rather, wealmostdid. Raquel falls squarely in the camp of “thinks she wants to fuck the scary guy with issues and then freaks the hell out when she realizes exactly how dark and deep those issues are” camp.

I never fucked Raquel. Yet she acts as if she’s “the one who got away” or something, and hounds me whenever she can for some fucking reason.

“Can I help you, Raquel?” I growl thinly.

She bristles as her eyes dart between Dahlia and me.

“Who’s this?”

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