Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72863 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72863 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
“Delicious,” he says, and Carrie’s gaze slides to me as I raise a brow. “Boston should be here any moment,” Bailey adds, glancing down the street.
I follow his gaze. The night stretches out, the city lit by streetlamps and the glow of lights behind windows, cars occasionally passing, headlights briefly cutting across the polished stone and blacked-out windows. Conversations hum around us, but my focus sharpens, instincts pulling tight.
Then a car pulls up to the curb. It’s not flashy or loud. It idles for half a second before the engine cuts off, then the driver’s side door opens. And something in me snaps to attention when a man steps out. Is that Boston? One foot hits the pavement, then the other, unfolding to his full height in a way that draws the eye without asking for it. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t hesitate, just shuts the door behind him with a quiet, solid snick, and adjusts his cuff as if this is routine.
Bailey lifts a hand, waving him over.
I take him in slowly.
He’s tall, taller than most, and built solidly, without being excessive. Broad shoulders, straight posture, the kind of presence that comes from knowing exactly what your body can do. His clothes are simple compared to the other attendees—a dark-blue, long-sleeve shirt, sleeves rolled just enough at the wrists, and black dress pants, sans jacket and tie.
It should make him look out of place.
It doesn’t.
If anything, it makes everyone else appear overdone.
He glances up, and everything narrows. His eyes are sharp, cold, the color of gunmetal, and he glances around quickly at first, scanning the area. He spots Bailey, then his gaze shifts, moving past Carrie, and lands on me.
It’s instant; a quiet, internal click. My body reacts before I can think it through, my shoulders pulling back slightly, my frame tensing, my attention locking on him completely.
He starts walking toward us, each step steady and unhurried, as if he already knows exactly how this interaction will go. Like he’s done this a hundred times before. I don’t look away. I want to see if he breaks the connection first. He doesn’t. By the time he reaches us, the area around us feels smaller, somehow tighter, as though something unseen settles between us.
“This is Maven,” Bailey says to him.
Boston stops in front of us, close enough now that I can see details—the sharp lines of his face, the controlled set of his mouth, the complete lack of wasted movement. He looks at me—really looks at me—as if he’s measuring me. We hold eye contact for a beat too long for strangers.
Then—
“Not interested.” His words are immediate, final. I blink once, slowly, my head tilting just slightly as something cold settles beneath my skin.
What? No hello?
My lips press together, the faintest edge of a smile threatening, not amused, not warm.
How fucking rude.
“Boston, come on, man. Loosen up a little. Tonight is all about fun,” Bailey argues lightly.
“No,” Boston says, his gaze sliding over me one more time before he moves to the doors that wouldn’t allow us in when we arrived. They open for him, and he goes straight through.
“He’ll warm up to you,” Bailey says to me. “Let’s go, ladies. Are we ready to have some fun?” he adds, and slides a hand across my shoulder.
Instantly, my skin crawls. I stiffen, a subtle flex of muscles preparing for attack. My fingers twitch along my leg, moving stealthily toward the knife tucked in my garter, just in case.
Carrie glances at me and forces a smile. Her eyes silently beg me not to make a scene.
I let out a slow breath, trying to keep my equilibrium. I walk at a sedate pace as the doors swing open, but inside, my mind is a storm. Every instinct is on high alert.
Disgust simmers beneath the surface, Bailey’s hand lingering too familiar. How Carrie can stand it, giggling at whatever line he just delivered, is beyond me. I notice the way she leans into him, the way she laughs at all the right times, and I can’t stop my eyes from narrowing. Why? I think. Why her? She’s smart. She knows the game. And yet … she lets this happen.
Bailey continues into the venue, oblivious or arrogant. His hand drops from my shoulder, but the tension doesn’t leave me. Not even a fraction.
If he touches me again, he’s going to lose his fingers, I think.
The space itself feels … off. Too controlled. Too quiet beneath the soft hum of conversation and clinking glasses that you can hear coming from inside.
The room opens before me, and I halt at the sight. It’s chaos dressed in silk and diamonds, an open make-out session. Some women are dressed to impress, and others are … naked. The faint smell of perfume and alcohol mingles with something darker, metallic almost. I catalog it all without missing a beat, noting exit points, security positions, who’s armed, who’s drunk, and who is worth paying attention to.