Chapter 10: The Liar's Kiss

POV: Sloane

Bang. Bang. Bang. "Sloane Mercer. Open the door."

The pounding was heavy and shook the floor through. Agent Harris. My handler. A man who was the stiff, Babbittian club of boys of the Bureau--men, who idled behind desks, whilst women like myself took risks to their lives in the black. Harris didn't respect me. He only wanted the promotion which my brains would purchase.

Roman Thorne had not flinched anywhere in the kitchen. The short end of his Glock 19 was directly aimed at the heavy oak door. his attitude was broad, easy, and absolutely fatal. His jet-black eyes were flashing towards me. Waiting.

Choose, sweetheart.

My decision was made within a second. I wasn't choosing him. I was choosing control.

I lunged across the kitchen. I caught hold on the heavy, leathers bound shadow ledger on the marble island and pushed it directly into the bottom drawer of the oven kicking it with my bare foot. Then I turned on Roman.

He was a foot taller and a hundred pounds of corded brutal muscle. But I didn't care. I jumped on to the lapels of his tailor-made black suit jacket and pushed him away.

He let me move him.

The shock in his eyes was changed quickly to black, lurid interest. He liked it. He liked me taking charge. I pushed him down the hallway towards the light and threw him into the windowless, dark bathroom.

Silently, I said, my hands hidden against his breast. His heart was like a heavy, regular beat, underneath the fine cotton of his shirt. He wasn't afraid. He was deriving pleasure on the adrenaline.

Roman smirked. His huge hand came down my waist, and his stumpy fingers grabbed my hip with a hot and possessive squeeze which sent a wicked jolt at once to my heart. "Yes, ma'am."

I shut the door of the bathroom, and left the hinge of the millimeter unaware of his disappearance into the darkness.

I strode to the front door and brushed my silk camisole and unlocked it.

Before the door was wide open, agent Harris forced his way inside the door. He reeked of damp wool, diner coffee, and unnecessary power. His gaze was flitting around my living room, and it settled on the kitchen island.

The blood-red silk dress. The velvet box of diamonds.

Well, it looks like a nice bet, Mercer, bust your butt on the marble, Your Honor," Harris sneered, and he strolled up to the marble counter. He stretched out and touched the red silk. It made my stomach turn. It was that poisonous inferiority I had to deal with on a daily basis--men who believed that they owned things they did not own. Now this sleeping around with the targets so we bring in the intel?

I penetrated, Harris, I penetrated, I snapped as I said it in a sheet of ice. I shut the front door, and had taken a step between him and the corridor where Roman lurked. Wallflowers are not welcomed in the private galas of The Thorne syndicate. I have to look the part. What the hell being at my apartment?

Harris swiveled around with a set face. "We have eyes on the perimeter. A huge shadow was seen on the fire escape being scaled ten minutes ago, under surveillance. We believed you were out of disguise. Who is in here, Sloane?"

My heart crashed wildly, in a wild, fearful cadence, at my throat.

Nobody, I said, and managed to keep a perfect expression on my face. "A Tinder date. He took the back stair when you were banging like they were in a SWAT team on the door. Reckless as I am, the Bureau would have to control my sex life to save its dear functioning?

Harris glared at me. He was seeking a dent in my armour. Nevertheless I had spent years of my life in the company of men just like him. I gave him nothing.

All right, Hudson," Harris growled, making a step patricide to me. "Have your fun. But wrap it up. We're pulling the plug."

The air of oxygen disappeared in the room. "What?"

Patience is one thing which the director lacks, whispered Harris. There is sufficient circumstantial evidence of the Briarwood athletic accounts. We are ambushing the arena tomorrow evening in the war exercises. We are bringing the whole group under arrest. Including Roman Thorne."

My blood ran cold. Circumstantial evidence will not be upheld in the court, Harris. They'll walk in a week. Give me until Sunday. I'm going to the Petrov gala. I can get the shadow ledger. I can get hard proof."

"The decision is made. Pack your bags, Sloane. Your time in the dark is over."

He didn't wait for an argument. Harris buffetted past me, threw open the front door and strolled out into the hall.

I threw the door open and nailed the deadbolt. I could hardly operate the metal latch, and my hands were shaking so violently. A raid. Tomorrow. Essentially, by storming the arena, the enforcers of Roman would shoot back in the event that the FBI stormed the arena. It would be a bloodbath.

There was a slow, careful step, which seemed to be coming behind me.

Roman came out of the shadows of the corridor. He had listened to not a single word. He did not seem furious over the raid. He appeared as a starving predator, who had just surrounded its prey.

He was creeping my direction. Lethal.

"A Tinder date?" he His voice a quarter changed a tone Dropping in an octave, vibrating, With black, scathing mockery.

I leaned as far as my spine allowed me to go alongside the front door. "You need to leave, Roman. You heard him. Well, they are after you tomorrow.

He didn't care. He clinched me, and put his big hands flat on the wood on either side of my head. The flame which was pouring off his huge body was pure fire. The scent of the damp rain, the oil of guns, and black mint was stifling me.

I do not care about the FBI, I said to myself, Roman. He bent down, his lips millimetres above mine. I have a vested interest in the fact that you lied to a federal agent a moment ago to save my life.

I was defending myself against my operation, I said to myself, attempting to put my head around. But my body was a traitor. The memory of his violent bruising kiss in the warehouse still lingered in my mouth. I had tried his darkness that day, and a diseased forbidden element had been yearning to it since then.

"Liar," he growled.

He didn't ask for permission. He smashed his jaws into mine.

It was an all-inclusive, bloody possession. His hands were back on the door, and he was holding me hard in by the waist, and lifting me squarely against his rough, powerfully muscled chest. I jerked at the contact and his tongue ran up my mouth and it tasted of complete domination and destroyed control. It was more solemn, serious, and hopelessly desperate than our kiss at the docks.

I hated him. I detested the authority that he exercised over me. But my hands started flying, and got in his wet and black hair. My kissing him back was as savage and feral as his.

Not a pleasant groan, Roman, but a guttural groan, which rattled through my chest. He supported me with his hands falling behind the thighs, away out of the door. He lifted me effortlessly. I clung on pure instinct on his waist, and hung on him as he bore me over the kitchen and threw me down on the cold marble island, next the blood-red silk dress.

He stood in between my thighs with his hips touching up against mine. His stiff, hard-skinned rubbing through his custom-made slacks gave me a jolt of sexual euphoria that shot directly to my brain.

You mine," he grated in my swollen lips and his thumbs tore roughly beneath the fine silk of my camisole to leave the nakedness of my waist. "You chose me, Sloane. We can never go to the light again.

I bent into his hands, my breathing totally ruined. His mouth trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the line of my throat, he leaned down.

Then the burning phone he had in his suit pocket buzzed. A sharp, loud buzz.

Roman went completely still. His breast pressed against my chest. He slowly drew back and he had such black eyes, glazed with pure lust. He got into his pocket and pulled out the phone.

I was able to see precisely when the mafia prince came back. The violence of his eyes had gone out, and in its place was vacant and horrifying.

He withdrew out of the island. He re-drew his Glock 19, and loaded a round with a fatal clack.

Dress yourself, Roman, buy, his voice had none of the emotion, and the word buy. "Put on the red dress."

"What? Roman, gala is no--not till Saturday--

Get dressed, Sloane, snarled he, snatching me up by the wrist and hauling me off the counter. He pulled me to the window, which was overlooking the moisten street. Harris did not go out there to warn you. He brought a tactical team. They are not waiting till tomorrow. They are breaking into the building at this moment.

The business is trap sprung, but who the trap setter is? Does the FBI come to arrest the Devil, or to murder the girl who cheated them?