A Thousand Cuts (Underworld Kings)

“He’ll see you now.”

My head jerked up to the pretty receptionist who was standing in front of me. I must’ve been deep in thought to miss her approaching as she was wearing six-inch heels, and the floor was a polished marble. That was unusual for me. Usually, I was on alert, making sure I always knew when people were approaching, when they were getting close, so I could prepare myself to play whatever part was needed for the situation.

I tried to return her smile, but I had a feeling it was wonky, off. Her eyes never dimmed, though. Working in an office like this, looking like her, she likely dealt with all sorts of bullshit on a daily basis. A strange woman who didn’t know how to smile was probably a welcome change from rich assholes trying to pick her up.

I reverently put the book down, stood, smoothed my skirt and followed her down the hallway. Art peppered the walls. Abstract, pricey, famous most likely, if I’d taken the time to learn about art. I hadn’t. Though I’d worked hard to scrub the trailer park from my skin—learning about fine wine, designer shoes and clothing, names that mattered, which fork to use, social etiquette—art was one thing I shunned. I found the people droning on about how much they paid for a particular ‘piece’ to be obnoxious and full of self-importance.

Then again, that was ninety-nine percent of my clientele. More than likely, this client would be no different. Because the meeting was so last minute, I hadn’t had time to research him, which unnerved me. Whenever I was involved with a case, with a client, I made a point to learn everything there was to learn about them. Not just their case. Their personal life. Their childhood. What made them tick. Another thing about me that contributed to my much higher than usual paycheck, my office and my overall ranking. The partners called me ‘The Client Whisperer.’ Not at all imaginative, but they were lawyers not novelists.

It was why I hadn’t found this meeting outside of the realm of possibility, though it was highly unusual. Though I was great at my job and attractive, I wasn’t sure why the firm was taking such a risk sending only me.

Unless it wasn’t their choice.

Something prickled at the back of my neck when the receptionist opened the door, and I heard a low murmur from inside, dismissing her. She skirted past me with a tight smile.

I stopped the second I walked into the room. The second the scent hit me. Which was only about a second before I saw him.

Him.

My breath left my body. I’d spent the past week trying my best to forget about this man, his hands on me, his mouth on me, his dick inside of me. I’d spent the past week trying to be the perfect fiancée to my increasingly distant partner. I was wracked with guilt, convinced that he could smell it on me, that he could feel that I was changed to my very foundation.

But I’d been imagining my fiancé’s attention span.

Imagining how much notice he took of me.

I had not imagined him. Now sitting behind an oak desk.

This was not a coincidence. I knew that immediately. Life did not work that way. Someone had put this in motion. Someone who knew the firm I worked at.

He was watching me. Devouring me. Drinking in my shock, my hunger.

Savoring the way he’d caught me off balance. Though I did not know his name, I knew this man thrived off sending people off course. Making sure they were never sure of the ground underneath them. Control. He didn’t just like it. He needed it. And he fed on fear. That’s why he’d wanted to know everything about me. He wanted my darkness, yes. But he wanted my fears. So he could use them against me. There was no way for me to truly know this, but I’d spent hours of sleepless nights this past week dissecting every second of our time together.

I couldn’t take back my initial reaction, but I could control my future ones. Whatever he wanted me here for, part of it was a game. Part of it was punishment for me not being at the restaurant. I was sure he’d played something similar with women who came before me, but I was unlike any of them. So I jutted my chin slightly upward, pushed my shoulders back, and walked slowly and confidently toward the chair sitting in front of his desk. He watched me. Did not stand. Did not speak. There were no papers in front of him, he didn’t so much as glance toward the computer on his left. At least he wasn’t feigning to be busy, important. I already knew he was busy. Important. Dangerous. His time was likely worth millions. And he was making a statement by giving me his undivided attention, by watching me, waiting to see where I was going to take it.