Her chin tips up. The signature Costa arrogance masks her terror.
“You do not have the authority to search my personal belongings.”
“I have the authority to keep you alive. That makes this entire compound my jurisdiction.”
I turn my back on her. It goes against my training. It goes against my instincts. But I need to break the visual connection before I do something stupid.
Before I pin her to the mattress and find out exactly how loud she can scream.
I start with the heavy mahogany dresser.
The drawers glide open silently on custom tracks. I push aside perfectly folded stacks of expensive silk and lace. The fabrics are useless for survival. Zero protection. Made strictly for visual consumption.
I slam the first drawer shut. I open the next one.
Her jewelry box sits in the center. I flip the lid open. Diamonds and gold catch the dim light. I ignore the gems. I’ve already stripped my tactical gloves, and I run my bare, calloused fingers along the velvet lining. I check for false bottoms. I check for hidden compartments.
Nothing.
I move down the length of the dresser. A collection of glass bottles sits on a mirrored tray.
My hand stops. I pick up a heavy, square bottle filled with amber liquid.
I pull the glass stopper free. I bring the bottle to my nose.
The scent hits the back of my throat. The exact same rose and dark amber driving me insane. Sweet. Dark. It smells like sin and secrets.
My grip tightens on the glass.
I jam the stopper back into the perfume bottle. I slam it down on the mirrored tray. The sharpclackechoes loudly.
I refuse to be weak. I don’t think about the way the emerald silk hugs her waist.
I pivot away from the dresser. I stalk toward the massive king-sized bed.
The mattress is covered in a ridiculous number of plush pillows. I strip them off one by one. I toss them onto the floor. I check beneath the heavy duvet. I run my hands along the wooden frame of the headboard.
I move to the nightstand on the left side of the bed.
I pull the small top drawer open.
A sleek, matte-black bullet vibrator sits in the center.
The matte casing is cold. Small. Efficient. A weapon of self-destruction.
The message from the group chat flashes across my brain.I just had one of the best orgasms I’ve had in years masturbating to the images of my three new bodyguards.My blood turns to liquid fire.
I reach into the drawer. I pick up the heavy little weight.
I turn around. I look at her.
I toss the vibrator onto the stripped mattress. It lands with a soft, dull thud in the center of the white sheets.
I don’t say a word.
The burn scars across my left shoulder and chest throb. The phantom pain always flares when I lose control of a room. A permanent physical accounting.
Ten years ago. An abandoned warehouse outside Pine Valley. The rival club barred the doors and lit the match.