Series: Webs We Weave Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 635(@200wpm)___ 508(@250wpm)___ 423(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 635(@200wpm)___ 508(@250wpm)___ 423(@300wpm)
Rocky’s jaw muscle tics. His gaze darkens and knifes into Henry. He’s silently seething, maybe partly for show. I see him curl his fingers into fists at his sides, but I’m surprised when he pockets them.
For the shortest, rawest second, I look deeper at Rocky.
Fight harder for me, I want.
I intake a sharp breath. I want. I want. I want. I’m swallowed inside the tornadic desire. The screaming and clawing and yearning inside of me that circulates at a vicious rate.
I want him.
Don’t I? Isn’t that what this feeling means?
His whole body is strained. Maybe because he knows he has to give me up. He isn’t supposed to outbid the mark.
He isn’t supposed to have me.
“Fifty thousand,” Henry suddenly announces, his hand on my ass.
“Fuck,” Rocky grits out, venom in his eyes. How much is real—I couldn’t even say. He needs to look angry about losing, but he’s not storming away.
“Let’s go,” I tug Henry toward the back room, a knot lodging in my throat.
I try to swallow it.
And just like that, Rocky is gone. Lost in the throngs of VIPs, bottle girls, and more servers. I approach a red velvet door. The back room is rigged with a silent alarm, and as soon as I open it, an alert will ping Nova.
We go inside.
The room itself is empty except for another leather couch and bucket of ice with Dom.
I drop his hand. “Thanks for that back there. Want a drink to start?”
“No, I want you.” His meaty hands grip my waist, pulling me closer.
I laugh. “Hold on, cowboy.” I shimmy away from his hands. “It has to be up front first.”
“Later.”
“My boss will be pissed. It has to be now.” Come on, Nova.
His face is flushed, eyes still glazed from the alcohol. I take a playful step backward, but Henry stalks forward as if it’s a game.
“I’m serious,” I tell him with the tilt of my head, my pulse in my ears. “Up front.”
He’s out of breath. “Later.” He reaches to grab me. I try to shove my instincts down—to let him touch me and not break character.
Drop your arms, Phoebe.
Don’t push him.
Don’t push him.
He clutches my hips, and the door swings open.
I step out of his hold faster than a bolt of lightning, and relief washes over me when Nova enters the room, his suit crisp and tailor-made for his six-one build.
“Fifty for the room with her,” Nova tells the mark. He has the face of a no-bullshitter. He means business, and I can only assume he crossed paths with Rocky, who told my brother the price of the deal.
“Who the fuck are you?” Henry wobbles on his feet.
“The manager of the fucking club you’re in,” Nova curses. “Fifty thousand, what you promised if you’re actually good for it. If you can’t pay, someone else will, and you can get the fuck out of my club.”
With all the alcohol and service charges, his bill is going to be higher than that.
“I’m good for it.” Henry sways but takes out his wallet. He hands Nova a credit card.
“Go grab some protection,” Nova tells me.
God. What every sister dreams of hearing from her older brother.
Bury me tomorrow when I burn up replaying this mortifying moment. I say nothing and go into the bathroom, where a silk robe is hanging on a hook. Quickly, I tie the black robe around my body.
Nova slips inside.
With buzzed dark hair, designer suit, and skin tanned from the sun, Nova carries himself like every morning is a battle. Every night is a war. And there’s no rest when in combat. But the only person I think he’s battling is himself.
Oliver says he’s neurotic.
I think he’s just trying hard. Really hard. To not fuck up like our dad did. To prove to the godfather that he’s more capable and dependable.
He has the portable credit card reader in his right hand. “You’re done for the night.”
I’m not surprised. This was probably the biggest payout of the day, and I shouldn’t screw someone else. It’d draw more suspicion. There are people here who won’t feel scammed in the morning. Those people are the ones who keep returning and urging their friends to come along, too.
“Cool,” is all I say.
He has Henry’s credit card hostage, but he can’t dillydally. He studies my eyes. “Platypus?”
I smile. We came up with that code when we were kids—me, Oliver, and Nova. Platypus means we feel like we’ve fallen flat on our stomachs. Splat, Oliver would say and fall belly down on a mattress. It’s funny that we didn’t choose armadillo.
Actual roadkill.
We just chose a duck-billed mammal that floats on its stomach. I guess losing yourself inside a con doesn’t make you feel run over.
It’s something else.
“No.” I shake my head. “Polar bear.”
The king of the arctic, Nova said at twelve. Polar bears think humans are easy prey.