Page 5 of The Players

SY

Sy shook his head as he walked down the stairs, following after a woman with a bouncy ass and a mean look on her face. What was the world coming to? A sub strutting around in a dominatrix outfit was looking for trouble. Of course, it was Halloween—anybody could become anyone they liked for a night. Except, this wasn’t just any woman. She was Carmen Caruso, widow of Franco Caruso, a former enemy of his.

The closer he got to the private rooms behind the dungeon, the more subs he encountered, trying to pull him into a booth.

“Master Sy, could we—”

“Not now, Delilah.” He looked past the pretty redhead, trying to figure out which room the fake queen of fetish had entered. He’d taken his eyes off of Carmen for a second and lost her. Shit. That one had trouble written all over her delicious body.

He couldn’t have anyone messing up his club, as it was one of the few ways he made cash that was IRS-proof.

Admit it. You wanted to fuck her the second you saw that ass.

No, I want tospankher. Fucking her is just a bonus.

After the third door he threw open, he finally found her. His gaze went up to the curvy woman holding a whip. Perfect white teeth bit on a slightly too big bottom lip. She had long, curly hair. He felt his hands twitch with longing, aching to run his fingers through it. She was leaning against the wall, as if she needed the support. Tears were streaming down her heart-shaped face, but she didn’t make a sound.

He followed her gaze and saw a pair of feet sticking from the side of the bed.

Fuck.

He walked up to the bed and stared down at a fresh body. He didn’t remember the guy’s name, but knew him to be an investment banker. They ran a “members only” club, but for one day a year, on Halloween, members were allowed to bring a non-member. Potential members were allowed inside as well, to get a taste of the club and what it had to offer, which was a decadent, top-notch place where you could fulfill your every desire, with guaranteed privacy. After all, they had a very diverse clientele, from politicians to celebrities, and every other prominent figure that enjoyed San Francisco’s BDSM scene. Another thing they provided was a safe place. Clearly, their security had been slacking.

He quickly assessed the situation. There were no marks on the male’s body or face. His neck fell at an odd angle though, which indicated it was broken. Snapped like a twig.

He turned toward the one person in the room holding a weapon—Franco “The Bull’s” widow. It would figure that during her marriage to that scum, she would have picked up a few scaring tactics of her own, such as how to wield a whip. Still, didn’t mean she would be strong enough to bring a big guy to his knees.

It bothered him that half her face was covered by a thick mass of dark curls. He needed to see her eyes. There was a reason those orbs were called a mirror into one’s soul. They were important. It was the last thing he saw before he took someone out.

Then she turned around. One look in her haunted eyes and his world shifted on its axis. She saw him. Actuallysawhim. Didn’t look through him or avoid his gaze as most women did, afraid of his cold look.

“Carmen.” He didn’t know what it was that prompted her name from his lips.

It was a mistake. He knew it the second her bewildered look turned icy and her eyes flashed.

“You!”

Slash.

Pain radiated through his bicep. Then, like a wildfire, it spread to his bare chest. He defensively put one arm before his face so she wouldn’t get him there. The damn woman wielded the piece of rope as if there was no tomorrow.

His skin felt too tight. Too hot. A familiar pressure started to build up inside him, a sure sign he was about to lose control.

She got one more hit right onto his chest before he grabbed the end of the whip, wrapped it around his wrist, and started to pull. It turned black before his eyes. Tucked away memories of the days he woke up with a beating, knocked into him like a sledgehammer. No one got away with hitting him. No one. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone hit him and lived to tell.

Don’t ever let anyone hit you again, Sy. Skarsgards don’t get hit.

He shook his head to get rid of the memory of his brother, Viking, holding a hammer over their stepfather’s body.

Next thing he knew, his hand was around Carmen’s throat and his body covered hers.

On the bed.

Fuck. How the hell had that happened?

She was writhing underneath him, panting like crazy. Her tiny fists pounded into him from the sides.

He closed his eyes, trying to push away the darkness in his head. It was like a living, roaring beast inside him that came back to surface, demanding retaliation.

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