“He told you not to give me a glass, didn’t he?” I ask, making the poor girl shift uncomfortably on her heels. I can’t blame her for following his orders. I would. If I wasn’t married to him. “A glass, please.”
“Rose,” Esther says warningly. “Please don’t.”
The mere fact she’s backing up her son only spurs on my reckless intention. Esther doesn’t even know why Danny’s thrown out death threats to any staff who dares gives me alcohol. She doesn’t know I’m pregnant.
“Yeah, come on, Rose.” Beau shifts along the seat, getting close, and puts an arm around my shoulder. “You don’t want to feel ill on your big day.”
I look up at the window, and something inside ignites, starting to burn me from the inside out. I’ve not even seen him today. He was so happy and then so . . . distant. Absent. I don’t know what he’s up to, but I don’t like it. He’s being secretive. The last time he was secretive, I walked a path of utter ruin. It doesn’t matter that my medicine was at the end of that path. I never want to relive those feelings of grief and loss. “A glass,” I say tightly, my eyes unmoving from the window. I blindly swipe up the bottle and pour as soon as the flute is placed down by a shaky hand. I lift the glass to my lips, and my tongue barely skims the liquid before it’s swiped from my grasp.
“No,” Beau snaps, slamming it down. “You’ll regret it. Perhaps we should go home.”
I snort, my eyes landing on a pole across the club. Kick him in the gut. Make him be present. Make it so he can’t keep his distance. The need is consuming me to the point I’m clearly not thinking straight.
I get up and saunter over to the stage, looking up at the girl hanging off the pole. “May I?” I ask politely. Her face, poor thing, falls like a rock, her eyes dashing around the club. “He doesn’t kill women,” I assure, her, smiling when she returns her eyes to mine. “Me, though?”
She’s off the stage like lightning, and I sit on the edge, pulling myself up. Beau is hurrying over, Esther hot on her heels, and poor Zinnea looks rather perplexed. “For God’s sake, Rose, do you have a death wish?” Beau tries to pull me down, but I dodge her hand, moving to the pole and taking it in my grasp, circling it slowly, my strides long, my gaze lifting to the window.
“Rose!” Esther hisses. “Get the hell down from there before you bring mayhem here.”
I want to bring mayhem here. I want a reaction. I want Danny Black, The Brit, The Angel-faced Assassin, to come down here and put me in my place, because if he’s going to force us into this world again, this is the only way I know how to survive it. With fire. With fight. With danger. I’ve found the woman I was. Finally. “Come on, you murdering asshole,” I say quietly, casting my eyes across the club, seeing all attention aimed this way, some men looking downright alarmed, others, who don’t know who I am, looking a little excited. I smile and thrust up against the pole, slowly and seductively crouching until my thighs are spread, the pole nestled between them, my dress around my waist.
“Rose!” Esther yells.
“Fury, get her down,” Beau shouts as I arch my back and rise, the crotch of my panties sliding across the metal. There are a few whoops from the crowd, a few leery cheers, a few claps.
I smile sickly on the inside, looking up when I see the door leading to the office open.
He appears, as expected, but I’m caught off guard when he doesn’t charge at me and haul me down. He just stands there, hands in his pockets, his face poker straight, his eyes blazing, as I slowly grind against the pole with him watching me. And it doesn’t escape my notice that suddenly no one else is. All men have turned away. Beau and Esther have returned to their seats. The bar staff is busying themselves.
I stare him down, hating the reaction his presence has spiked. Terror. Pure, raw terror in everyone. Except me.
I push my front to the metal until the pole is between my breasts and hook a leg around it. His head tilts. I slowly lower. He starts a casual stroll toward the stage as I bring my other leg up and slide down the pole until my ass meets the floor, my legs spread. His eyes fall to my exposed panties. His scar glimmers. He’s mad but trying not to show it.
And when a man, a stupid, foolish, greedy man, lifts his eyes from his drink at a nearby table, Danny wanders over, cool and calm, places a hand on the back of his head, and slams it down.