by Kit Rocha
He watched her in silence for a few tense seconds, then sighed and rolled unsteadily to his feet. “I’m doing it again. Fuck.”
It was probably stupid to let him leave this way, but she desperately needed him gone. “Drink some water and get some sleep. You’ll be square in the morning. We can talk then.”
“You don’t want to talk. You want to hate me right now.” His grin bordered on feral as he abandoned the booze on her table and moved to the door. “It’s okay, darling. I’m a big boy. I can take it.”
Throwing the bottle at him meant she’d have to clean up afterwards. And speaking was even more dangerous. She stared at the table until the door shut behind him, then drew her knees up under her chin and wrapped her arms around her legs.
“That’s right,” she whispered to the bottle he’d left behind. “Put me in my little box, Declan.”
Queen
Dallas had found that the roof of the Broken Circle was a convenient spot from which to survey his growing empire.
Hard to remember, now, that the warehouse across from him had been the whole of their world for so long. Now those doors were flung open into the crisp evening air, an invitation to the spectators who’d arrived early to get the good seats.
Fight night was a roaring success. He’d been dubious, after they moved production to the newer, bigger warehouse on the far end of the block that was coming to be known as the O’Kane compound. Some small part of him had wanted to cling to the old stills—as a memory, as a legacy, or just as insurance. It was still hard for him to let go of potentially useful resources, even after two years of ruling the sector.
Lex had talked him around. They’d fallen into an oddly comfortable rhythm after she’d taken her ink. Friendship, maybe. Less than what he could have had, but probably still more than he deserved.
At least she was still here. And every goddamn thing Lex touched turned to gold. People flocked from the surrounding sectors to participate in the fights they hosted in the warehouse, and most nights it was a toss-up on how the O’Kanes pulled down more credits—the booze or the betting.
In addition to the new warehouse and the increasingly luxurious living quarters, they had a building for product storage, a wood shop, a garage full of cars in various states of repair, and three huge buildings they’d joined together into a jumble of storage space so he could hoard resources and supplies to his heart’s content without anyone getting grumpy because they were tired of tripping over it.
An empire, indeed. His, down to the last nail, and not bad for a mere five years of work. Not bad at all.
After giving his compound a final, contented look, Dallas turned and retreated down the back stairs. On his way up, he’d passed by Amira, who’d promised to make him dinner. He’d have just enough time to enjoy a meal and a few moments of solitude before it was time to make his appearance as king.
He followed the tantalizing smell of food to the kitchen, where Amira was flipping a burger on the griddle next to toasting buns and several strips of what smelled like real bacon—honest-to-God pork, not the protein-powder knock-off they cooked up in Sector Eight. “Where’d you get that?”
“Mad brought it back from his trip to One this week. The beef, too. And I made the bread.” Amira beamed at him. “Nothing freeze-dried in this meal.”
That smile was dangerous. She’d been kicking around long enough for Dallas to know when he was being buttered up—but it was hard to mind when she was slapping real butter down on that flat-top. Besides, one of the best perks of being a king was getting to be indulgent with the ladies in his life. “Aren’t I just the luckiest man in Sector Four?”
“You could make a pretty successful argument for that fact.” She fetched a plate and loaded it with steaming fries. “How are things set for the fights?”
“Good. I heard fighters from Three might be coming in tonight, so you girls stick close to the guys, okay? Those motherfuckers don’t mind their damn manners.”
“Right.” Amira slid the plate in front of him. “Better eat these before they get cold.”
The fries were crisp and salty, just the way he liked them—another sign of how serious Amira’s impending request was. He ate a few to give her time to futz with the burger and bun and then quirked an eyebrow when she glanced at him again. “What’s up, Amira?”
She served the burger, wiped her hands on a towel, and leaned back against the counter. “I wanted to talk to you about ink.”
“Yeah?” The first bite of the burger was heaven—juicy and full of flavor and a definite argument for striking up a better relationship with either Mad’s family or the farmers over in Six. Why the hell was he working this hard if he couldn’t enjoy the perks? “What about ink?”
“Well, it’s just—” She pulled out the single chair across from him at the tiny table and sat down. “Some of the new guys have their cuffs already. The really new guys.”
He nudged the plate over so she could share the fries. “None of them are giving you trouble, are they?”
“No, of course not.”
“Any other reason you think they shouldn’t have ink yet?”
“No, they should.” Her brow furrowed. “But I should, too. That’s...what I’m talking about, Dallas. My ink.”
He almost choked on his burger.
Amira wanted cuffs. She wanted to join the goddamn gang.
Giving Nessa ink had been one thing. She was the heart of the whole damn operation, and anything that kept her happy kept the booze rolling out and the credits rolling in. Lex could take care of herself as well as most of the men and better than some. And Rachel—well, her lot was tied to theirs, thanks to the debt he owed her father. Giving them ink was a symbol, a calculated risk that the tattoos around their wrists would offer more protection than they did trouble.
And it was protection now. More and more every day. Which made him wonder why Amira wanted it. “Is someone hassling you?” he asked, setting the burger down. “Someone outside the gang, I mean. Because if anyone is giving you shit, you know I’ll take care of it.”
“No. I mean, yes, but no more than usual.” Her cheeks turned red, and her chair scraped across the floor as she rose abruptly. “You need something to drink.”
He watched her walk to the fridge, her movements stiff enough to indicate anger as she pulled it open and retrieved a beer. She didn’t meet his eyes as she returned, and Dallas gentled his voice. “Hey, ink isn’t a lark, Amira. The guys are signing up to take orders and risk their lives. You don’t need to do that for us to protect you. We’ll always take care of you.”
“I understand, Dallas. Perfectly.” Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes as she placed the bottle in front of him. “I’m going to help stock the bar in the warehouse. Enjoy your dinner.”
She turned and froze. Dallas followed her gaze to see Flash standing just inside the swinging door, a huge, silent presence. He inclined his head to Amira and stepped aside, clearing a path for her to dart past him.
When she was gone, he turned his unusually disapproving eyes on Dallas. “What the hell, man?”
No sign of the man’s usual cheerful obedience lingered in his expression. Dallas drained half of the beer before pinning him with a forbidding look. “This is a gang, Flash. Not a fucking tea party. You think a sweet girl like that needs to be in a gang?”
“Nessa is. Rachel is.”
“They’ve got ink,” Dallas retorted. “Doesn’t mean they’re in the gang. Not really. Or do you wanna take Rachel out the next time you have to crack some heads? Bring Nessa to your next street fight?”
“Shit, no.” Flash crossed both huge arms over his chest, an aggressive signal that he wouldn’t be backing down. “You know what else I don’t wanna do? Organize all the other waitresses. Sweet-talk the old-timers. Smile nice at every asshole who rolls in here. You don’t even know how much money Amira makes you by being damn good at her job, do you?”
He knew she was good, and he paid her very, very well fo
r her skills. But the anger in Flash’s eyes had taken on a personal edge, and Dallas suspected this unexpected display of defiance had a very simple motive.
Flash had it bad for their adorable little waitress.
Dallas slapped the burger onto his plate of fries and picked it up. If he wanted to relax, he’d better eat in his office today. “Hey, if you want to offer her a different sort of ink, you go right ahead. But I said what I fucking said.”
For a moment, he thought Flash would block his path to the door. But even when they were annoyed with him, his men put loyalty first. The big man swung out of the way, and Dallas carried his dinner to the relative sanctuary of his office.
But when he was settled behind his desk, all he could see was the giant safe now tucked away in the corner of his office. He never had been able to look at the damn thing without thinking of the woman who’d robbed it, and that safe was a reminder.
Flash was the least of his concerns. If Lex got riled up over this...
He’d better enjoy this last peaceful meal.
»»» § «««
Lex heard the yelling before she even reached the back door to the kitchen.
“I said no. Flash, will you please just drop it?”
“I’m just saying, it doesn’t have to be real. I won’t make any demands on you. But I could keep you safe. No one would fuck with you ever again.”
“It’s not about that—”
Lex opened the door, cutting through Amira’s words, but not the tension that flooded the kitchen. “Do we need to get you two in the cage to settle this?”
Amira snorted, and Flash snarled and whirled around, jabbing a finger toward Lex. “Good, you can talk some damn sense into her. Dallas won’t give her cuffs so I told her I’d mark her.”
“But it’s not—” Amira rubbed her temples. “I don’t want your pity.”
“It’s not pity,” Flash growled.
“Flash.” Lex laid a hand on his arm. He was tense, tense enough to argue if she started ordering him around, so she waited for him to take the hint.
His muscles trembled under her fingers. After a few moments, he exhaled harshly and stepped back. “Fix this,” he muttered at her before spinning on his heel and slamming through the doors so hard they rebounded and swung inward.
Amira flinched, and Lex soothed her with a soft noise. “You talked to Dallas?”
“I asked about ink.” Amira’s brown eyes sparked with bitter anger, all of it directed inward. “He didn’t even understand what I was asking at first. I didn’t realize...”
“That he never planned for you to have it at all?” Lex finished.
She dug her teeth into her lower lip and nodded. “We’re not really part of it, not to him. We’re here, but we don’t belong.”
It would be so much easier to face her if Lex could deny it. But the truth was stark, irrefutable. Damning. “No, we don’t belong. Not the way his men do.”
“Not even you.” It wasn’t a question.
“Oh, especially not me.” It was difficult enough to understand and impossible to explain. Dallas had marked Nessa out of practical necessity, Rachel out of obligation, and Lex...
Well, he’d marked her the only way he could.
But it didn’t serve the same purpose as the ink he offered the men. And Lex had made the mistake of playing along, because fighting for the sake of fighting was a luxury she didn’t have with Dallas. Every fight brought them closer to the big one, an explosion she wasn’t sure the sector would survive.
She wouldn’t challenge him on principle anymore. But she’d do it for Amira.
“I fucked up,” she admitted. “I let him get away with this bullshit because I didn’t realize it was hurting anyone. I was wrong.”
“Flash heard.” Amira wrapped her arms around her waist. “I know he means well, but you have to get him to stop. I don’t want it. Not like this. I don’t want to be someone’s...duty.”
“I’ll talk to him first,” she promised. Then she’d talk to Dallas. She’d reason with him, of course. If that didn’t work, then she’d yell.
And if that didn’t work, she’d make sure he thoroughly regretted ever being born.
»»» § «««
Dallas knew he was in trouble when Lex appeared at his bedroom door the night after the fights wearing a clingy red silk robe and heels that gave her a good four inches—and were sharp enough to impale a man.
Taking in the sleepy, sensuous look in her eyes, most men would have assumed impaling was off the table tonight. Dallas knew better. “Lex? You get turned around?”
“Clever.” She stroked one finger down the front of his chest. “I know exactly where I am.”
“Yeah?” He should hold his ground. Bar the door. Wait for her to turn around and leave. Letting her into his bedroom when she was riding whatever mood this was seemed like the kind of stupid that got men killed.
Basically, his kind of stupid.
He took a step back, and she prowled past him, surveying the room as she toyed with the belt on her robe. “A gentleman wouldn’t have kept a lady waiting.”
“Let me know if you find one of those.” He swung the door shut and leaned against it, watching her prowl with an uncomfortable mix of lust and wariness. The way that robe slid over her ass as it swayed back and forth was enough to get any man’s dick hard, especially a man who’d had that ass grinding against said dick more than once.
But something about the way she was moving set off alarm bells. The husky pitch of her voice, the elegant, terrifying seductiveness in her slow, stalking movements...
Cerys had thrown enough of her fancy Sector Two whores his way for him to recognize the game, and Lex was playing it effortlessly right now. Brutally. Dallas finally understood what Ace had been saying the first day he’d met Lex.
All the years he’d spent twisted up, convinced she was steering him around by the dick, and she hadn’t even been trying. All that sensuality, all that temptation, all the desire she stoked in him with every movement, every breath—that had just been Lex, at ease. Her goddamn resting state.
She wasn’t resting anymore.
The loose silk slithered off one shoulder, revealing one side of a black mesh halter that had clearly been designed by a sadist. Lex’s skin glowed under it, every detail visible. The indent of her belly button. The full curve of her breasts. Her nipples, tight and peeking out from over the wide neckline, like she could move just a little and the fabric would give up trying to do its job and reveal everything.
And it looked flimsy enough to give way with one strong jerk of his fist.
She studied him in unabashed silence, her gaze raking up and down his body with a tangible intensity. It lingered here and there, her unconcealed desire punctuated by tiny gestures—an indrawn breath, the parting of her lips. Her tongue sneaking out to glide over the corner of her mouth.
Manufactured? Probably not. He knew Lex liked to look at him. Heat had never been the problem between them—just keeping it contained so they didn’t burn alive and take out everyone in a hundred-mile radius with them.
She wanted him, but she never let him see it. Not like this. And that mattered. He had to remember that mattered.
Remembering was harder than it sounded, with all the blood abandoning his brain.
“Lex.” Her name came out hoarser than he intended. His voice damn near cracked. Getting hold of his damn libido, he growled it again. “Lex. What the fuck kind of game are you playing?”
“Game?” she echoed, her tone caught somewhere between innocence and distraction.
“I’m not an idiot, Alexa.”
“Oh, I think we could debate the subject, Declan.”
Oh yeah, she was pissed. Knowing it was coming should have prepared him for this, but how the hell was he supposed to fight with her when she was standing there, barely wrapped in gauze, her sexuality a weapon honed sharp enough to slice through steel?
Still, he had to try. “If this is about Amira—�
��
“It was,” she interjected. “Until I spoke to Flash, and he let me know what you really think of me. Of this.” She lifted one wrist and touched the ink that surrounded it. “I already knew, of course. But I never expected you to actually admit it.”
He struggled to remember the exact words he’d used with Flash, but irritation clouded the memory. “What? That I don’t want Nessa and Rachel rolling out to fight street punks? Do you?”
“Is that why they’re not really in the gang? Because they don’t bash heads or kick asses?” She abandoned her robe on his bed and stalked toward him. “You beautiful, stupid man. For someone so obsessed with resources, you’re criminally bad at recognizing them.”
Her hips swayed. Her eyes glinted. Dallas didn’t know if she was coming to kiss him or kill him, and Jesus, it was hot. Like handling a live current, not knowing if all that electricity was going to light up his life or fry him to a crisp. “Just because she’s not in the gang doesn’t mean she’s not useful. I know she’s useful. You’re all useful.”
“That isn’t the compliment you think it is.” She braced a hand on the door and leaned close, the peak of one nipple brushing his arm. “You had to mark Nessa and Rachel. But what about me?”
What about her? He’d rationalized it a thousand times—to himself, to her, to the men—and the reasons always sounded good when she wasn’t standing in front of him. But his gaze drifted to the ink wrapped around her wrist, to that logo that had become so inextricably tied to him that anything it graced belonged to him...
Dark satisfaction. Base triumph.
Even if he couldn’t afford to claim her, she was still his.
“Say it.” Her eyes locked with his as she jerked open his belt. “I want to hear you say it.”
Yeah, she did. Because under all that danger, under the thrill of wondering if he could catch her without losing his fingers and keep her without losing more—there’d always been the sweetest promise.
Lex would bend for him. She’d kneel for him. She’d give him everything.
But only if he gave just as much in return.
