Take (Deliver 5)

She stepped back, unable to endure another whiff of Tiago-infused air. But there was no escaping his presence. He was everywhere, all around her, overwhelming and watchful. Always watching with those dark, dangerous eyes.

“I’m finished.” She glanced around for a mirror, her throat tight. “Do you want to see it?”

With a grunt, he skimmed a palm over his scalp.

“Feels fine.” He stood and unbuttoned his shirt as he addressed Arturo. “If she goes outside, keep her within eyeshot of the house. I’ll be in the backroom.”

She’d overheard Arturo mention something about weights. What were the chances she could slip in there while Tiago worked out, steal a dumbbell, and finish the job Lucia had started?

He loosened the cuffs of his sleeves and stripped the shirt. The tank top underneath followed, revealing a heart-stopping landscape of muscle and scars.

The welted designs on his forearms stretched around his biceps and faded at his shoulders. His slacks hung low on narrow hips, his torso a scar-free, concrete wall of virility.

This man had spent the past month in bed? Impossible. He didn’t have an ounce of fat on his body. No flab or loose skin. Nothing that resembled weakness or poor health. The last thing he needed was a damn work out.

God help her, she was in trouble.

When she’d stormed into his room last night, she’d been blinded by rage, empowered by the possibility that he was old and out of shape, and floating on the hope that her friends would come. She had none of that now.

Her future rested on the whims of a criminal. A crafty, cold-hearted, beautifully-sculpted criminal, who would end her life without a second thought.

His gaze grabbed hers as he shook out his shirt, draped it over the chair back, and lowered his hands to his belt.

She gave him an incredulous look. If he needed to remove his pants to lift weights, why couldn’t he wait until he was in the backroom?

Watching her unnervingly, he slipped the strap from the buckle and emptied his pockets. Keyring, phone, wallet—everything went on the table. Then he toed off his boots and lowered the zipper of his fly.

She didn’t want to do this with him. She didn’t want him to remove his pants while gazing into her eyes. It felt personal. Intimate. She couldn’t breathe.

But looking away would be a sign of submission. Van had taught her that.

So she held fast to that eye contact. She stared as he slowly closed the distance between them. She stared until he ducked his head and dragged his nose across her cheek, her jaw, her mouth, smelling her.

She pinned her lips together and remained motionless as he lifted the top of her dress and straightened it into place.

Once her chest was covered, he stepped back and dropped his pants. An arrogant smirk kicked up the corner of his mouth.

She winged up a brow, refusing to glance down or give him a dramatic reaction.

His smirk transformed, curving into a handsome, breathtaking grin. It softened his eyes and altered the very air around him, making him unrecognizable. One smile, and he could be mistaken as human. A hot-as-fuck human with the capacity to shift and melt things inside her.

Holy bejeezus. When he wasn’t scaring the piss out of her, he was sucking her in with his glowing charisma.

Lucifer had charisma. It was easy to be both repulsed by evil and drawn to its power. She would do well to remember that.

He tossed his pants on the chair beside the shirt and glanced at Arturo. “Inform Boones that my clothes are covered in hair.”

“Si, Jefe.”

She waited for him to give her a parting command or threat, but he didn’t. He turned away without acknowledging her and strode down the hall, taking every molecule of energy with him.

His command, his influence, his damn magnetism—it created an intoxicating aura around him, freezing her in place as he ambled toward the backroom.

She couldn’t look away if she tried. Couldn’t stop her gaze from following the ridges of his chiseled back to his trim waist and the fit of the tight briefs across his flexing ass. An unwanted fever heated her skin, and frantic little flutters erupted in her belly.

Why was she checking him out? He was deplorable, mean as hell, and mentally unstable. Pure poison beneath that superficial beauty.

He turned the corner and glanced back, his gaze spearing hers.

Letting her head tip to the side, she plastered on a stoic expression. He already inspired fear in her, and he knew it. She wouldn’t give him the impression he was enticing, too.

When he slipped into the backroom and out of view, she glanced around for something she could swipe without Arturo noticing. The scissors on the table? The bread knife near the stove? The keys on Tiago’s keyring? His locked phone?

Arturo didn’t take his eyes off her as she strolled through the kitchen. She loitered for a few moments, waiting for a distraction, but that only prompted him to shift closer and watch harder.