Sinister Diesel Blue Spring Kit Novels & Stories

Tonight, it was the latter. I drifted into the study. The room was dark, lit only by a single, low-hanging desk lamp that cast long, distorted shadows. Liam was slumped in the large leather chair, his tie loose and crooked, his shirt wrinkled. The amber liquid in the bottle on the desk was half gone. The air was thick with the sweet, heavy smell of expensive bourbon and the sour tang of cheap despair. This was a different kind of opportunity. Elara was weak to fear. Liam, I sensed, was weak to guilt. And guilt, fed by alcohol, was a dangerous, beautiful thing.

“Enjoy the view, from afar.” I smirked, leaning into Dante’s side. “Jealous, tesoro?” “Protective,” he murmured, kissing my temple. “They look at you like meat.” We moved to another group, where a Saudi prince eyed the GMC Yukon Denali Ultimate. “This one,” he said, turning to us. “Nico mentioned 6.6L Duramax diesel, 460 hp, B7 armor. How’s the interior?” “Custom leather, encrypted comms, oxygen system for gas attacks,” I replied, but Dante cut in, his hand sliding lower on my back.