Part 9 (2/2)

Kat snaps, ”You will leave him alone.”

I glance at her but she's trying to send a silent message with her eyes to Sean. Unfortunately, he's now staring too fiercely at Ryodan to notice.

She exhales gustily and I echo it.

The males at this table are ruthless. The only way Sean can hope to compete in business with them is to be equally ruthless. As the princes adopted a degree of civility to optimize their survival, Sean will have to adopt a degree of barbarism to optimize his.

Leaving me to wonder the same thing I know Kat's thinking: how much of the man she loves will remain?

6.

”I'm going be that n-n-nail in your coffin”

JADA.

The woman moves through dark streets, thick with fog blown off the sea. Dusk cloaks her in mist and shadow as if she's a secret the night has sworn an oath to protect. Moonlight illuminates wet cobblestones and rain-streaked windows but glances off her as if deflected by an invisible cloak.

Like the Shades, she's a smudge in the darkness.

Born of long and unforgettable habit, she avoids the pale yellow pools of streetlamps.

Better to see than be seen.

Being heard is another thing. Sound skitters and reverberates, and unless one is a highly skilled hunter, it's difficult to secure the target in one's crosshairs by noise alone.

She can do it. She's as infamous as the legendary Queen's Huntsman. She's never missed her mark.

Her enemy isn't so skilled. The one she seeks tonight is sloppy, blinded by gluttonous appet.i.te, but to lure it she's not enough. She needs an attractive, s.e.xually viable man.

Stiletto heels that gleam silver kick gusts of fog into lacy, sharp-edged patterns as she strides through Temple Bar toward Chester's nightclub, where she will select her bait. She's dressed to kill, weapons concealed: gun strapped to her thigh, knives flush to her skin, a s.e.xy chain of a belt that distracts the male eye as it swings at her hips, a lethal garrote. The ricochet of her shoes on pavement is loud, deliberate. She knows she's difficult to see and at the moment desires to be accessible.

Immediacy is efficiency.

Contempt for death is her way of life.

Nothing touches her.

To be touched is weakness.

As she turns down an alley, mist swirls back from long, bare, lightly oiled legs, the edgy hem and neckline of a black spandex dress, the supple body of a dancer, long hair pulled back in a high ponytail, the serene face of a stone-cold killer, before enveloping her again.

She's beautiful.

It's a weapon.

She has suffered the worst the world has to offer.

And thrived.

She's compiled a list of names.

And will hunt them one by one.

When at last the fog parts upon the face of her enemy, she will have no mercy.

This world had none for her.

7.

”This night could almost kill you”

LOR.

”Who am I?” the blonde kneeling between my legs demands.

I need to come so f.u.c.king bad my teeth hurt.

I know the answer she wants. She wants me to call her ”mistress.” Like she's the Dom. She's already tried to get me to say it twice, sneaking it in like she thinks I won't notice because of the mind-blowing stuff she's been doing with her lips and tongue and that flawlessly executed glide of teeth so few women ever master when giving head.

She's wasting her time. It's never going to happen. There isn't a submissive bone in my body. I'm alpha to the motherf.u.c.king core.

I pull her head from my groin and grin down at her. Hot, h.o.r.n.y blondes are a dime a dozen at Chester's. Riots may have sacked Dublin last Halloween and a killer freeze might have shut the city down for a while, but it's rebounding fast. People have been flooding in, resettling both sides of the River Liffey, drawn by the thaw, restored power, and supplies, but most of all by the endless parade of s.e.xually insatiable Fae that pack the bars and dance floors of 939 Revemal Street every night of the week, hunting human lovers. The hottest, most deadly nightclub in Dublin is bigger, better, and badder than ever: Chester's is Sin Central-if you want it, we got it.

”You're not that good, honey.” I flash her a grin. My comment is guaranteed to spark one of two things: either she'll get up and walk out p.i.s.sed or I'll get even better head.

I know by her confidence-and the hungry way she's been watching me all night-she's not walking.

She laughs and runs her tongue over her lips to make them even wetter, s.h.i.+ny with the spit of a pro and pre-ejac. I lean back against Ry's desk, since he's off at some meeting for a few hours, looking forward to her amped-up performance, watching her, watching the club through the gla.s.s floor beneath my boots, loving life. As long as women walk this earth, I'll be a happy man. If they ever get wiped out, I'm done. I'll go in search of K'Vruck.

She slaps the head of my d.i.c.k then closes her mouth over it in one long perfect slide all the way to the base ... does some kind of swirly thing, then an intense suck back out.

I nearly stagger.

Son of a b.i.t.c.h, she's good.

She has her hands on my a.s.s, face grinding into my groin, my d.i.c.k is down her throat, and I'm a frigging volcano about to blow. Problem is, I been ready for a good twenty minutes, but whenever I get close she mixes it up and shoves it out of reach. What was initially a turn-on has become a pain in the a.s.s. Not to mention the b.a.l.l.s. I'm beginning to think they might rupture. I'm dripping sweat and I'm not even the one doing the work, although I'm looking forward to getting down to it. The woman has one d.a.m.n fine body.

I take her head in my hands and try to move her mouth on me the way I want.

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