When I’m satisfied, I tap my computer screen and several windows pop up. One for my personal account. One for Terra One announcements. And one for the latest updates. I scan the news feeds and see nothing out of the ordinary. Certainly nothing related to Hubcap and Whiplash. Maybe Brody is right and they’re not connected. Setting aside my unfounded paranoia, I enlarge the window of my personal account. Typing in a password, I transfer half of my salary as the boss’s driver to the Open Arms Orphanage. Then I make a small bet against Ace winning. I may be jinxing things by doing this, but call it confidence. I really should have listened during tonight’s meeting. Resolving to pay more attention, I close the window and enlarge the announcements and read through. There’s a public execution. My lower lip juts out as I finally allow myself to lean back. Another traitor. Immediately my mind goes to Slipstream.
I send a quick email to Mistress Anne for an update since I wasn’t able to visit him today, then get up. The rest I can deal with the next day. I roll my shoulders and leave my office, shutting off the light as I step into the hallway. The distant sound of a shower catches my attention. The image of Zamara naked and standing beneath the water’s spray causes my cheeks to flush. Biting my lower lip against the temptation of casually walking into the bathroom with the excuse of brushing my teeth, I enter my bedroom instead. The hallway light trails in with me.
The sleepless nights because of the nightmares the images of Hubcap’s and Whiplash’s deaths bring finally catch up with me. Fatigue loads my steps with quick-dry cement as I approach the vanity beside my dresser. When I go to pick up my hairbrush, my hand freezes in place. I scan the pots of moisturizer, bottles of perfume, and various other beauty products I keep in rigid order. The handle of my brush has been moved a centimeter away from its original place.
Taking a slow breath, I reach into my jacket for one of my knives. Running on instinct, I lunge at the figure I hadn’t previously noticed standing at the farthest corner of my room. Bringing my arm up, I shove at a hard chest until the intruder slams into the wall. I bring the knife to his throat. I hold the offensive for only a second. In a blur, I find myself turned around. My cheek is pushed against the wall. A rough hand squeezes my hip, calluses digging into my skin. More than his hand, the overwhelming energy radiating from him prevents any of my muscles to respond to the commands of my brain. The strength of his aura pins me in place.
“I’ve missed you,” he whispers in an unmistakable gravelly voice. It scratches down my spine, sending gooseflesh to ride my skin hard. “I like it when you play hard to get.”
I relax a muscle at a time. “I’ve been busy.”
He forces my legs farther apart by sliding his foot between my boots. “Remove your jacket.”
I fight against breathing hard, each lungful sending a mix of motor oil and eucalyptus down my throat. His scent undoes my self-control, but I don’t show him any weakness. “You know you’re only pinning me against the wall because I allow it, right?”
“The knifepoint on my balls is sending that message loud and clear.”
I flick my wrist and leave a nick on the fabric of his pants just to make sure we understand each other. He doesn’t flinch. A corner of my mouth comes up in appreciation as I embed the knife a few inches from where his other hand rests against the wall. I stretch my arms toward him and shrug. My jacket slips from my shoulders to pool at our feet. Bedlam kicks it away. Then he moves his hand to the edge of my ribbed shirt and tears the offending fabric like tissue from a roll.
I hiss at the sting of ripping cotton on my collarbones and chest. “That was my favorite shirt, you jerk.”
I feel his grin against my ear when he says, “You say that every time when really you have six more in your closet.”
“Shirts don’t grow on trees. Next time, you’d better bring me a new one as payment.”
“And cheapen what we do here? I’ll bring you a dozen.”
My laugh—deep-throated and husky—rubs my bare back against his chest. The planes are hard and perfectly contoured yet rough from the quilt of scars that riddles every inch of flesh I’m ready and willing to worship.
“Turn me,” I whisper-moan. “Let me touch you.”
He moves his hand from my hip over to my stomach and pulls me roughly against him. “Not tonight.” He nips at the curve of my shoulder. “Tonight, I drive.” He slides his hand down my abdomen into the band of my leggings and panties and cups me. My legs automatically turn to jelly—a signal of my surrender.
Hours later, when dawn dresses my room in purple gray, I wake up lying on my side. Keeping my eyes closed, I stretch my arms over my head. I expect an empty bed when I turn over to face the side Bedlam frequently used, but my hand coming into contact with skin surprises me. My eyes fly open and I’m met with a body. He usually leaves after we’ve had sex. We never spend the night in each other’s arms.
My vision takes a moment to focus. When it does, I finally notice the absence of scars beneath my palm. I sit up. I take in the glazed eyes staring
