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“What does he mean?”
“Behave, Red,” I say. “Or I’ll make you.”
“Malone…”
“This is a very important game, and I need something enticing to throw into the pot.”
I need her—want her—humiliated, tested to her limits. If Scarlett’s turned so inside out, she won’t be able to think straight about me. She won’t ask questions I can’t answer. She won’t fucking analyze so much if she’s focused on the fact that she might become someone else’s prize tonight.
She gapes at me and tries to take a step back. I don’t let her.
The nerves start to fray. “What do you mean?”
“You,” I say. “Whoever wins gets you.”
“W-what do you mean gets me? I’m not something you can sell, Malone.”
“No, but you’re mine for as long as this job takes. And tonight you better hope like fuck I win, or you’ll be fucking the winner. And everyone else. Surprise, my pretty little party favor. Surprise.”
TWENTY-TWO
scarlett
Poker? He’s betting me in a fucking poker game?
Now this… this is the cruel, dark man I’ve unfortunately come to know. Miles away from the one who confided in me about what happened to his family. A world apart from the man who was nice and calming to my cousin.
Which tells me he is complete bullshit.
He’s less the fallen angel I started to see him as and more the Devil I already know.
“At least I’m not dressed up like one of the girls in here.”
“I should hope not. They’re all being paid a small fortune.”
“Of course they are. Is that how you usually get a woman?” I ask, my words dripping with disgust.
He laughs soft. “I never pay.”
“Except with me.”
“Some might argue that you’re paying me for my help.”
Malone’s words sting. God, he’s such an arrogant ass.
“And here I was thinking you were some kind of damaged soul when you’re just a cruel bastard.” I grit my teeth, trying not to stare at the beauties who are wandering around to bring the men drinks, who drape over them like they’re mindless dipshits.
I know they’re not. I can see the calculating light glimmering in their eyes.
The contempt for most of the men behind the soft smiles and stroking fingers, how they let the men touch their almost-bared breasts in their short, slinky outfits.
Next to them, I’m basically in a hazmat suit. Sure, my pretty royal-purple dress is short, and it dips in the front, but I’m not like them.
They’re basically wearing glorified bathing suits.
When he laid it on my bed and said we were going out, I believed him. Not that we’d be at dinner necessarily, but I figured he was taking me somewhere with at least some kind of decency to it.
“Your best and worst nightmare?” he asks, hand spreading out on my lower back. “One you loathe and want in equal measures.”
