“I did not.”

“Indirectly. Don’t tell me I’m the hottest fuck if I’m not.”

“I’m surprised you’re still talking. I thought Pri-ya meant pretty much brain-dead. Don’t you have better things to do with your mouth?”

“Oh, honey, I got plenty of better things to do with it. Better than any fuck out there.” And I’m gonna prove it. She likes danger? I’ll show her danger. “And some of us got too many brains to kill.”

She laughs. “You? Yeah, right.”

I growl. A few chains would definitely help. We’ll see just who she thinks is the hottest fuck by the time I’m done with her.

When she pushes herself up to climb on top of me again, I shove her back and snarl, “Arms over your head, woman.”

With a husky laugh, she falls back and complies.

She’s gonna stop laughing real soon.

Scowling all the while, wishing I had chains in this room—bloody hell, how can she look at this face of mine and not see danger?—I dig around in the sheets for the scarves my parade of blondes donated to the cause, knot them around her wrists, and tie her real tight to the posters at the top of the bed.

Then do something I never let myself do, and tie her feet down, too, thinking, Man, she should not be letting me do this, followed by, Man, I know better than to do this.

I got Jo spread-eagled naked, legs wide, totally at my mercy, and I’m not gonna have one fucking ounce of it. She’s not getting out of this bed until she’s had the most explosive orgasm of her life, followed by a few hundred more. I’m keeping her for weeks.

I’m keeping her until she’s telling me I’m the hottest fuck she’s ever had and means it. Until she’s Lor-Pri-ya. Until she sees there’s a little more going on here than Mr. Fucking-Second-Rate-Nice-Guy who’s fun, for fuck’s sake, and wasn’t one of the most vicious killers the old world knew. I can keep it under control. I’ve been soaked in sex for the past week and a half. The lethal edge is off my appetite. Mostly.

We’re a competitive bunch at Chester’s. We don’t take kindly to being called second best. It’s why we don’t poach each other’s pussy. We get territorial, even if we screwed ’em just once. Level 4’s turnover is the highest in the club.

She’s looking straight at me, catches her lower lip with her teeth. “I never let Ryodan do this to me,” she says breathlessly.

Wise woman. Not so wise now.

Score one for Lor. I’m doing something the boss didn’t do.

I’m about to do a few other things I guaran-damn-tee Ryodan didn’t do, too.

27

“Are you in the firing squad or are you in the lineup”

MAC

Being invisible in a closed elevator with Barrons and Ryodan is quite possibly one of the most stressful experiences of my life. It nearly ranks up there with being tortured by Mallucé.

You don’t think about the many ways your body has of announcing your presence until it’s absolutely essential you remain one hundred percent silent. I could sneeze. Hiccup. Pass gas. If I forget to walk with my feet slightly apart, my jean-clad legs will swish against each other. One of my joints might pop. I may be young but my bones keep getting broken and occasionally my knuckles remind me of it. A single belly growl would out me in an instant. These are men with dangerously acute senses.

I make a mental note to forgo eating when I decide to go sleuthing next time so I won’t have to worry about my stomach gurgling as it digests. Then I realize if I don’t eat, it might growl from hunger. I conclude I’ll have to eat frequent, small, easily digested meals to minimize the likelihood of either from happening while I scout the restricted half of my world.

I press back in the far corner opposite them, trying to be as small as possible, holding my breath and praying it’s a short ride.

Although it feels interminable, we stop after only two levels. Ryodan stalks off the elevator with Barrons behind him. Again I have to run to keep up.

A few doors from the end of the hall, Ryodan slams his palm against the wall and roars, “Get the fuck out here now, Lor!”

I catch up to them as the door whisks open and stand behind them, peering in.

Ryodan storms into the room. And stops. Mid-step.

I lean forward and—Oh. Wow. Oh. Looks like Jo took my advice. Plunged into it with alacrity and abandon.

I wonder irritably how many times I’m going to have to watch Lor have marathon sex this week. The universe seems to be taking some kind of perverse pleasure rubbing my face in his carnal abundance and my lack thereof.