89

ALEXANDER

Her office is as bare and impersonal as every other branch she owns. Minimalist at best. To the point of looking sterile. It’s as if she believes the slightest touch of personality would make the walls combust, like a devil daring to step into a church.

Megara Takahashi is what most men would call the definition of Japanese beauty. Skin so pale it could have been poured from porcelain. Tall, a striking 5’8, with the kind of figure that makes photographers plead for her time. Her hair was black, lustrous, and impossibly sleek, falls to her lower back because she refuses to cut it, no matter how often people suggest it.

She rules men as easily as breathing, but she has never traded that power for softness. She once told me men fear women far more than they fear other men. I’ve yet to see her wrong on that. She fed off that fear and that's why she is where she is now.

Most of the time, I like her. Admire her, even. But the last time Claude came here, she crossed a line. And she knows I despise traitors more than liars.

“What do you want, Alexander?” she repeats, her tone sharper now.

She’s trying to sound unaffected, but I can read her far too well to fall for that. She hates me, and she hates that she can’t kill me, hates even more that some part of her doesn’t want to.

“You already asked that.” I roll my eyes, letting the words drip with impatience. “And I already refused to answer. I thought you’d get the memo by now. You’re usually quick. That’s one of the things I like about you, don't lose that."

I take a step toward her. She matches me with a step back. I keep going until her spine meets the wall.

Her hand flashes toward one of the daggers mounted there, but I strip it from her fingers in a heartbeat.

“Are you high on something?” I ask, my tone bored enough to insult. Her glare sharpens, and her crimson eyes brighten with something that’s part fury, part… uncertainty.

She’s still trying to figure me out. I should have killed her the moment I walked in. I had every intention to but somewhere between the thought and the action, I decided she’d be more fun to keep alive. Megara is too valuable to waste over one mistake. Some would call that mercy. Claude would certainly see it that way. But he is the beta for a reason, he never looks far enough ahead.

Megara is already a name in Japan. Her casinos in Las Vegas and Chicago are thriving. She’s climbing, and in a few years she’ll hold influence most politicians would envy. Imagine having that kind of reach wrapped neatly under my control. That alone saved her life today. Well, that and a touch of her father’s money.

“Fuck you,” she hisses.

“I have. Once. And I’m not interested in a repeat.” My answer hits the mark as her temper flares.

Without any finnesse whatsoever, she drives her knee upward. She doesn't connect as she's not fast catch me off guard. I grip her thigh, pulling her leg around my waist instead.

Her breath stutters, coming out sharp and uneven. Her chest rises quickly, betraying the spike of adrenaline or maybe something else entirely.

“If you’re here about your brother, I had nothing to do with that,” she says, searching my eyes. Whatever it is, she doesn’t find it, because she presses on. “But you’re not here for that.”

“Claude would be insulted if he thought I was fighting his battles. You’ll have to wait for his response to your betrayal. I’m here for something else.” I let her go and step back.

She stumbles, forgetting that I was holding her. Her hand shoots out for balance and lands—unfortunately for her—on the blade edge of a dagger. She hisses as blood blooms in her palm. I suppress the smile threatening to break.

“That’s a questionable choice of decoration,” I remark, settling into her chair behind her desk. She watches me but says nothing about the trespass.

Truth is, she has more of my respect than half the men outside this office. She’s got more steel in her than they could dream of. But sometimes, she needs reminding that she can be knocked down a rung or two.

“If you’re not here for that, then why are you here?” she demands, bringing her wounded palm to her lips.

I force my expression to remain neutral. Watching a vampire drink their own blood has never sat well with me. Then again, lack of restraint is practically part of their DNA. An annoying trait unless you’re the one threatening them.

“You know why I’m here, Megara. And it would be better for both of us if we stopped pretending otherwise.” I reach for her cup and take a sip.

The metallic tang of blood hits my tongue, and I spit it back into the glass.

“Damn vampires,” I mutter. “A person with taste would at least mix in a splash of scotch. Or vodka.”

“You hate vodka,” she says, rolling her eyes before placing a hand over her chest in a mock swoon. “Oh, you remember. I’m touched.”

“Awww, I always knew you were in love with me,” I say with a grin. “But let’s keep it down. No need to make this awkward.”

She smirks, shaking her head. “How do you even walk with an ego that size? And tell me, does the woman warming your sheets now have anything to do with why you stopped playing with me, master?” She flutters her lashes in a performance that might have worked two months ago.

Now, it only makes me want to laugh in her face.

“Blackmail isn’t your color, sweetheart. So here’s how this goes, you tell me what I came to hear before I lose the last shred of patience I have left.”