A Promise of Torment (A Violent Agenda)

After a minute or two, the cooling ointment has soothed a little of the raw edges inside and out. Dante is a good ally to have. I shouldn’t alienate him, not when I’ve been trying my damnedest to win the bastard over.

“So, what now?” I say, letting out a breath to calm my nerves, mind picking over the pieces of what happened. I keep my gaze on where he has a gun hidden, glancing up at his face briefly to assess his intentions.

“V, this is your show. I’m just back-up,” he shrugs.

“You never take a contract without payment upfront. I haven’t paid you yet.”

Dante cocks his head, hands in his pockets, an annoying smile still on his lips. “Haven’t you?”

I snort. “You know I haven’t.”

“My bad. I’ll just have to collect from you later then,” he says, staring into my eyes, bleeding me dry with the intensity of that damned gaze of his.

“Maybe you could collect now,” I say tilting my head, licking my lips, bunching my skirt up higher.

I’ve never flirted with Dante.

Never.

But I’m riding high on adrenaline right now, so anything fucking goes. Dante’s eyes darken and his brows pinch in the middle.

“What?” I give a soft laugh. “You can come into the kitchen, but you can’t take the heat?” Dante flirted first, at least that’s what I’m telling myself. This isn’t weird, is it? We grew up together. My father practically adopted him after his parents died. I’ve never liked Dante in any other way but as a big brother…

Until now.

I let go of the hem of my skirt and push away from the table I’m leaning against, slightly unsteady. The painkillers are taking effect. I can hardly feel the sting anymore. It could also be the excitement of what I’m about to do drowning everything else out.

Did I ever mention how absolutely beautiful Dante is? Probably not.

I try to ignore the way he looks because the Devil shouldn’t appear to be so divine.

Icy blue eyes look down at me under hooded lids. Blond hair, tousled and messy, snatched back at the nape of his neck. I’ve always wondered how it would feel running my hands through his hair.

Is it soft? Does it smell of him?

I walk up to Dante, looking at him with new eyes. And when I’m in front of him and he towers over me, my hand reaches up and teases a lock of it—his hair. It’s softer than mine—feathery and delicate like the wings of a fucking angel.

“V, what’s going on?” my ex-mentor asks.

Cheekbones that could slice through veins. Stubble that sculpts his chin. Full cupid-bow lips that beg to be kissed. I know from past gigs when we’ve shared hotel rooms that he has a butterfly tattoo on his chiseled chest. He never told me what it meant. I trace the outline of it now through his t-shirt.

“Men don’t rescue me. I rescue myself. When it does happen, I must admit it’s a huge turn-on. I’m practically frothing at the mouth for a real man to take control of me,” I say.

The boys were wrong.

Dante is the Angel of Death, not me.

With a sigh, I lean in and rest my head on his chest.

“V,” he warns. There’s so much warning in that one letter.

Dante is every girl’s wet fucking dream.

Too bad…I hate him.

I pull back. Dante’s gun is in my hands. I point it at his head. The look on his face is worth it.

“What did you say earlier? Pretty damn perfect?” I say. “Mind if I borrow this for a while?”