Page 39 of The Secrets That Kill

“Pretty little Pollyanna.”

Another silence. Charged. Full of so many unspoken things.

Then he says, “I heard.”

Cara must have told him. Before she took off with the money I gave her along with her slate cleared of debts. I think about bringing those up to Orion but don’t. He either knows about them or doesn’t. And that’s not my business.

“What the fuck, Mercer?”

“Yeah,” I say, ignoring the fury in his voice. “You’ll just have to live with it. And you should know by now I’m not going to change my mind.”

I hang up without saying goodbye.

Orion wanted information. And he’s fucking beyond pissed about the new arrangement, which is too damn bad. I close down the site and log out of the computer then finish my drink.

Standing up from my chair, I stare down at the city below. Soothed by the dots of the glowing bronze lights of Central Park.

I should turn the lights up in my office, but this place gets on my nerves at its full brightness.

There was a reason Orion saved the Ruby information until I thought about turning down the job. He couldn’t do it himself, and while we do partner for work at times, there’s both trust and distrust that runs between us and has for many years.

Did he dig in and find that information so I’d take his little spy as my slave to get into Henderson’s lair? Or was he sitting on it for a time he could use it himself?

I sigh and lean my forehead against the glass, closing my eyes.

Does it even matter?

End result’s the same. I’m doing the job for Ruby because I should have known what had happened to her. When I got out of prison, I should have tried to track her down, to check up on her.

But like with my mother, I just didn’t.

They both made their beds…

Only I bet Ruby didn’t go to hers willingly, not like my fucking mother who found another brutal, abusive asshole like my dear dead father.

He’s dead.

Because I killed him.

Pushing back from the window, I down my drink in a few swallows. I’m abusing the Lagavulin, but this is only a twelve-year-old drop.

I pour another shot into the glass, not wanting to get drunk, but needing to dull the too-sharp edge that presses on every one of my nerves.

What I should do is put on a suit and head on down to the Knights. There won’t be any whispers behind closed doors that Henderson is marked. But some Knights who work like I do, even those deep in organized crime and with mafia ties, will know someone who’ll benefit from Henderson’s demise and with it, any record of their crimes erased.

That kind of shit is worth, for some, millions.

O-Ring and the deeper levels of that gorgeously depraved place call to me, too. Maybe I should go and pick up a willing little sub, whip her, torture her until her clit is so oversensitive it’s exquisite agony and pleasure.

I could even take her down to the next level and share her. Or take her up to one of the rooms and just fuck her senseless. Cunt, ass, mouth. Every which way.

Problem is, I keep craving the sweet sugar of Pollyanna.

But I do need to make sure everything is set and ready. It’s layers upon layers of work. Meticulous. Like working with poisons—concocting the right one, determining the right dose, and then the administration of it. It requires precision.

I need to use the same process here. Except I neverexpected this strong of a pull to her. I thought she’d still be just as annoying, keeping my interest levels low apart from a nice body to use. But this has the hallmarks of real D/s. That connection that goes beyond two people and their kinks. And unfortunately, I’m more intrigued by Ivy than I want to be.

I still don’t like her.

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